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No, 65 


25 Cts. 



Copyright, 1885, 
by Harper & Brothers 


April 2, 1886 


Subscription Price 
per Year, 52 Numbers, $15 


Entered at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter 




TULIP PLACE 


51 JStorg of New Pork 


( ivlAil 30 


By VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON 

AUTHOR OP 1 * 

“ the NEPTUNE VASE ” “ TWO OLD CATS ” “ THE CATSKILL FAIRIES ” ETC. 


“ The many fail : the one succeeds — Tennyson 


Copyright, 1886, by Harper & Brothers 

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TULIP PLACE. 


CHAPTER I. 

TULIP PLACE. 

“ The wave is breaking on the shore, 

The echo fading from, the chime; 

Again the shadow moveth o' ex 

The dial plate of time." — Whittier. 

In the city of New York there is a street known as Tulip Place. 
The residents of this favored locality are few, and, for the fluctuat- 
ing population of a large town, unusually permanent. 

Tulip Place is situated on the east side, yet so near the thorough- 
fare of Broadway as to be redeemed from the imputation of isolation 
in an unfashionable quarter. Left behind, as it were, in the tide 
of growth rolling ever onward to the extreme limits of Manhattan 
Island, the spot cannot be designated as “ down-town,” since it occu- 
pies a medium position between extremes, in keeping with the nat- 
ural conservatism of the original owners of the property. 

The envious may sneer at the pretensions of Tulip Place, hovering 
on the boundary, meanwhile; for the block thus designated, and 
inserted between a neighboring square and an avenue, has an at- 
mosphere of gentility and tranquil seclusion all its own. 

Fame of a quite particular sort attached to Tulip Place at the 
date of which we write, for the St. Nicholas family still dwelt there, 
while the spacious mansion of Donald Belt occupied the opposite 
corner. 

Equipages of a sober and correct elegance paused before one door, 
and glittering four-in-hand coaches awakened the echoes to rein up 
before the other entrance. Dignified old gentlemen sought number 
Five on foot, on occasion, intent on the interests of the latest meet- 
ing of historical society or charitable institution. Shabby pedes- 
trians slouched against the railings, at all hours, hands thrust in 
empty pockets, boots past the cobbler’s art of mending, raiment 
frayed and worn, like the wearer, to gaze at number Ten, with the 
weary and wistful eyes of the disappointed emigrant, the cynicism 

1 


2 


TULIP PLACE. 


of the ruined speculator, the sullen rage of the thriftless vagabond, 
fascinated by the contemplation of the rich man’s prosperity, even as 
the spent gambler hangs hungrily on the successful play of another 
on the tapis-vert. 

In the veins of the St. Nicholas family coursed the purest blood 
of the earliest settlers of the land, whether Dutch, English, or Hu- 
guenot. 

The fortune of Donald Belt had been evolved from that useful 
modern invention, the domestic sewing-machine. 

Hence the double fame enjoyed by Tulip Place. 

The town still laughed over the jest, grown a trifle stale in the 
lapse of time, with the broad irony and petty malice inherent in all 
communities, of how Donald Belt, two - and - twenty years earlier, 
had bought the property on Tulip Place, through the medium of a 
business agent, and thus forced himself, in all his new and brazen 
splendor, on the august seclusion of this quiet spot, hitherto sacred 
to the tradition of refinement, education, and gentle birth rather 
than the modern spirit of vulgar ostentation, too often inseparable 
from hopeless ill-breeding. At that date the residents, albeit peace- 
able citizens, would have risen to a man, and kept the obnoxious 
intruder at a distance, presenting a phase of republicanism as puz- 
zling to the foreigner, capable of discerning only a level of common 
interests in American life, as a distant shore first appears to the 
ship’s company in the offing, without just estimate of those heights 
and valleys of distinction separating the millionaire from his neigh- 
bors. 

To the contemplative mind Tulip Place possesses a history, such 
as every street enjoys, of which each house, with the joys of domestic 
peace and the tragedy of family ruin and discord, furnishes a page. 
Sedate merchant, plump banker, and prosperous lawyer had skated, 
in the enjoyment of a clerk’s holiday, over the flooded meadows of 
this portion of the St. Nicholas land. Time was when the family 
manor had stood here, stored with memories of Dutch governors, 
English officers of the garrison of New York, Hessian nobles, and 
French patriots— graceful and accomplished personages in powdered 
wigs and lace ruffles, who projected Utopian states while delicately 
manipulating the pinch of snuff taken from gold and silver boxes. 

Old Mrs. St. Nicholas still dreamed of the past of the street* in 
the soft and interminable reveries of age, while her fingers guided 
the ivory knitting-needles in the task of weaving together tinted 
wools. 

There was tire Church of St. Jerome, expanded from the early 
colonial structure, with its square pews, high pulpit, and faded has- 
sock, to pinnacle and belfry — where rang melodious chimes — rich 


TULIP PLACE. 


3 


memorial windows, and surpliced choristers; changes wrought by 
that zealous parishioner, Donald Belt, of sewing-machine fame. 

There were numbers Eight and Twelve, solid and wholesome 
mansions, whose founders being dead, their frivolous and degen- 
erate descendants had taken flight to regions farther up-town, suf- 
fering the paternal roof to be converted into select boarding-houses. 
These establishments might be the most expensive and fashionable 
of their class, yet Mrs. St. Nicholas could not forgive the giddy 
votaries of extravagance who had deserted the hearthstones of their 
fathers for the substitution of slips of houses on wide thoroughfares. 

In light and shadow stood number Fourteen, where the children 
were growing from flaxen-haired infancy to budding youth, and the 
pale, anxious face of the mother appeared at the window, a watcher, 

{ attracted by a sound, or a fancied resemblance, and awakened to 
swift, agonizing expectation of waiting for one who never returned. 
At nine o’clock on a winter’s night the young husband had taken 

i up his hat and gone forth to purchase an evening journal at the 
nearest news-stand on Broadway, and since that date he had not 
been seen by mortal. Tulip Place had been thrilled by the mystery, 
and chilled by the grief of the wife. “What becomes of the men 
who disappear from the surface of great towns?” old Mrs. St. Nich- 
olas would muse, recalling the painful details of that time, the ex- 
ploration of sinful and dark labyrinths by the detective skill of 
the police, the plumbing of slimy depths of wharf and bridge, the 
feverish activity of the telegraph, seeking, questioning, hinting at 
crime, disgrace, and folly. “Women are not often spirited away 
in the same stealthy fashion, unless some silly chit of a girl is ab- 
ducted.” 

In light and shadow stood number Seven, where violence had 
come with the thief in the night, as if mocking at the seeming secur- 
ity of a peaceful neighborhood, and the strong man had been found 
in the dawn stretched stark and stiff on the threshold of his cham- 
ber, smitten down with a blow, his papers scattered, and his safe 
rifled of gold and bonds. Fast lapsing to the doubtful borderland 
| of a haunted house was number Seven, with closed shutters and 
shrouded corridors, where lurked the stain of some unexpiated 
crime; a hollow shell, robbed of lawful inmate, and the widow, a 
stern woman, swathed in crape, holding vigilantly the key, even as 
she kept guard on her own pale, resolute lips ; her time devoted to 
religion and charity. 

The modern burglar, usually known in America as a London thief, 
had not failed to pay his respects to Tulip Place in more adroit and 
harmless guise. Had he not visited number Two in daylight, dis- 
guised as a woman, and spirited away, as if by magic, Mrs. Nu- 


4 


TULIP PLACE. 


gent’s diamond rings, silver teaspoons, India shawl-, and a velvet 
gown or so? Did not more than one neighbor consult a clairvoyant, 
on the occasion, with curious inquiries respecting these missing arti- 
cles, and receive the most varied, not to say perplexing, information 
in response? 

Mrs. St. Nicholas, alone, pondered on these matters: the harvest 
of good and evil which had visited her street in the manifold expo 
riences of life. 

The busy world of the town, having attended service on Sundays 
and saints’ days at the Church of St. Jerome, recalled Tulip Place 
only as the abode of the rising man, Donald Belt, and the St. Nich- 
olas family. Nay, if the truth be confessed concerning a degenerate 
age, Donald Belt was rapidly acquiring precedence of importance in 
public estimation. An upstart, an intruder, who had gained posses- 
sion of the land on which his house was built by resorting to a trick 
most unbecoming in a gentleman, the street could only take refuge 
in not knowing him, and otherwise rendering him uncomfortable 
by the small social slights to which, as a human being, he would 
be vulnerable. Mr. Jacob St. Nicholas had never enjoyed the pleas- 
ure of an acquaintance with Donald Belt, and Tulip Place followed 
this lead. The rector of St. Jerome, a mild and peace-loving old 
man, much perplexed by the hostile attitude of the parish, and the 
most judicious course to pursue as regarded a new member desirous 
of embellishing the tabernacle from his own private purse, had 
departed this life, leaving the unsolved problem to a younger and 
more energetic pastor, and the latter had not hesitated to accept 
chimes and choral appointments from the millionaire. 

Mr. St. Nicholas had smiled his most sarcastic smile, and rubbed 
his delicate white hands together with a movement which betrayed 
not wholly repressed irritation. It is further on record that while 
retaining liis place in the vestry, in order to conscientiously oppose 
and indirectly thwart any measure proposed by the new man to that 
body, he stared coldly at the intruder beyond the limits of such 
council, and subsequently remarked, '‘Sewing-machines must be in 
demand.” 

Why should the parvenu intrude where he was not wanted? Let 
him seek one of the wide avenues, the new streets, where his class 
may bask in all the ostentation of unaccustomed wealth. Thus 
Tulip Place had reasoned, with the same petulance and cruelty 
which often falls to the lot of a new pupil in a school. 

Donald Belt would have none of the locations to which he was 
unceremoniously assigned, and just in proportion as he was not 
wanted had he coveted residence on Tulip Place, fie was a reso- 
lute man, capable of making his own way. If society had not, at 


TULIP PLACE. 


5 


the outset, affixed the seal of a capricious approval to his name he 
was determined to win consideration in good time. In addition, 
the town witticisms appertaining to the sewing-machine were wholly 
misplaced, yet must ever cling to him, like a burr, teasing, irritat- 
ing, and unworthy of notice. Donald Belt was a banker, and knew 
less of the mechanism of wheel, shuttle, and lock-stitch than his 
neighbors. Possibly the weakness of having the raiment of his 
household invariably hand-made furnished the scornful with an ad- 
ditional weapon wherewith to sting. 

Joseph Belt, the father, had, in a humble and industrious youth, 
combined one of those labor-saving inventions which, spurning the 
drudgery of human fingers, have undoubtedly left idle the workers. 
These perplexing and philanthropical considerations had not de- 
terred the quick-witted and clear-headed mechanic of frugal life, 
and although he had speedily converted his earnings into other 
channels of shrewd investment, the sewing-machine remained at- 
tached to his own name and that of his descendants in proportion 
as his riches increased. 

Tulip Place and the town sat in judgment, grasping conclusions 
without too closely analyzing their substance. 

Donald Belt, banker and millionaire, must ever be designated as 
the sewing-machine man, even as the flavor of chocolate, employed 
in a disparaging sense, adheres to the princely magnificence of a 
certain private hotel of Paris, the stimulating qualities of vermouth 
have become inseparable to the exquisite toilets of a stately beauty 
of Turin, the virtues of an invalid-beverage lend lustre to the dowry 
of three sisters in London society, and the soothing effects of a 
cough-syrup are extolled at Florence in connection with villa, the- 
atre, and palace building. Why the inventions, compounds, and 
elixirs, projected for the good of mankind, should serve as a term 
of reproach for the supercilious and the impecunious, must remain 
one of the mysterious phases of the human mind. The noble of 
Ferrara, nurtured on the fairy lore of Boiardo, and the measures of 
Ariosto, in the trim little capital set amidst the fertile corn-fields and 
terrace-vines, may still smile, by right of his own chivalrous lineage, 
at the descendant of wool-spinners in the Tuscan Athens, or Roman 
titles. 

Tulip Place was prepared to doff the hat to the mine-holder, spec- 
ulator, or dealer in iron, on a gigantic scale, while disdaining a cer- 
tain spacious mansion on an adjacent thoroughfare as having been 
built of pins, or a passing equipage, with yellow wheels and con- 
spicuous liveries, as owing its origin to crinoline. 

The name of Donald Belt must remain united to the sewing- 
machine, and who can determine if some future fame may not fall 


6 


TULIP PLACE. 


to his portion as obscure as that attaching to Dick of the queer hat 
band, Betty Martin, or Jack Robinson? 

“O vain world’s glory and unsteadfast state 
Of all that lives on face of sinful earth.” 

The years passed, and the seasons brought their changes to Tulip 
Place. Spring blossomed in the square beyond, where the fountain 
glistened in the sunshine, the babies played, and the sparrows built 
their nests in the Gothic cottages, assigned them, by an enlightened 
municipality, among the branches of the trees; summer smote the 
town with sultry heat ; autumn decked even the curbstone with the 
transient glories of gold and crimson foliage; winter fringed every 
spout and gutter with crystals of icicle. 

The face of the watcher at the window of number Fourteen grew 
more wan and set, while the children throve and laughed. Door 
and casement of number Seven, of haunting memories, defied the 
years to wrest from its walls the terrible secret of a dark night’s 
work. Donald Belt held his ground, evinced no disposition to pull 
down his barns and build greater elsewhere, and expanded, as it 
were, in the sunshine of prosperity. 

Old Mrs. St. Nicholas, journal or knitting in hand, pondered on 
these matters. A younger generation ignored them, intent on the 
hopes and pleasures of to-day. 

On the eighteenth of December, in the year 18 — , morning dawned 
crisp and clear on Tulip Place. Mr. St. Nicholas opened the win- 
dow of his library to consult a thermometer suspended on a hook of 
the shutter, according to his habit, and having satisfied himself as 
to the exact temperature of the past night, withdrew his white head 
swiftly. 

The hangings of satin and lace were separated, and Camilla Belt 
gazed forth on the street from one of the casements of number Ten. 

“I am twenty-one years of age, to-day,” proclaimed the girl, 
triumphantly, as she stood there in her peignoir of velvet, which 
caught the light in the varying tints of amber and brown of a pheas- 
ant’s plumage, while the creamy, yellow folds of the curtains re- 
mained gathered about her. “ That means I am very, very rich, oh, 
city of Gotham ; and you know the value of money, do you not, my 
dear fellow-townsmen? No! I did not mean you, sir.” 

This reservation was addressed to the opposite St. Nicholas man- 
sion, where a second curtain had been pushed aside for the occupant 
of the chamber to glance out, in turn. A tall man, with a certain 
easy grace of carriage in keeping with a fine head, covered with curl- 
ing brown hair, and the good-humored smile of an undeniable hand- 
some face confronted Camilla. A large man, with serviceable hands 


TULIP PLACE. 


7 


and feet, and broad, muscular shoulders, he betrayed by the very 
fashion in which he thrust his fingers into the pockets of his plush 
morning-coat that indolent indifference to trifles, promising a latent 
reserve of power for emergencies, such as leads the mastiff and 
Lithuanian hound to pass by snarling curs, disdaining the gage of 
battle ; a man at peace with himself aud the world, prepared to live 
to-day as he did yesterday, comfortably and with all due tranquillity, 
undisturbed by the fever of soaring ambition, and not too much in- 
terested in his fellow-creatures. 

“Iam thirty-five years old to-day,” mused William St. Nicholas. 
By Jove! I begin to feel old, already.” 

A sudden blush suffused the face of Camilla Belt. The presence 
of her opposite neighbor was a distinct grievance, at the moment, 
and checked her exultation. On awakening she had experienced the 
joy of a mortal who holds the brimming cup of happiness. The 
Greeks best characterized this climax of earthly felicity in the sum- 
mary— to be young, healthy, rich, and able to enjoy the hours with 
one’s friends. She loved her father with an instinctive loyalty of af- 
fection, she was on good terms with her stepmother, and she possessed 
hosts of friends— chirping, caressing maidens — and decorous youth 
ready to obey her slightest bidding in the park, or to hold her bou- 
quet at a ball. The world was before the girl in the robe of irides- 
cent velvet, shrouded in the amber lace of the window. She was 
free to go and come, to choose and cast aside. This new-born sense 
of power thrilled her with intoxicating pride. She commenced to 
build air-castles . and dream roseate visions in harmony with her 
years. Then William St. Nicholas must needs look out of the oppo- 
site window, as if to warn her of the limit of vanity, the subjects 
she could not hope to claim, the lives, gentle, well-bred, remote, on 
whom her sway would have no influence. Camilla’s flexible brows 
met in a ready frown. “ No ! I did not mean you, sir!” she repeated 
aloud, half ashamed of her delight in the possession of her fortune 
of ten millions of dollars, inherited by her, on this day, from her 
grandfather, Joseph Belt. “ Wjhat is mere money to a St. Nicholas? 
Money that first began to spin with a sewing-machine, besides. The 
thread of the first shuttle must have been pure gold. A pretty fancy ! 
A golden thread, woven through all these years, for me to reel off at 
pleasure. Poor grandfather! You might have spent more on your 
own comfort without harm to your unworthy descendant. See! 
We were both born on the eighteenth of December, Mr. St. Nicholas, 
with the difference that you had some fourteen years the advantage 
of me. 1 am told that, as a boy, you had the curiosity to come and 
look at me, so astonished were you that I ventured to take such a 
liberty as to enter the world on your day. There is a tradition in 


8 


TULIP PLACE. 


the humble home of Belt, cherished especially by the old nurse, that 
you patted my cheek when you met me in the street, on subsequent 
occasions, until snubbed by your parents.” 

The pair continued to gaze at each other across the street, with- 
out exchanging a salutation, yet moved by the same thought, in 
acknowledgment of a link of mutual interest which existed between 
them, independent of their respective position. 

The frown faded, and yielded to an expression of humorous per- 
plexity on the features of the heiress, which were mobile and expres- 
sive rather than beautiful. Given the accessories of creamy lace 
hangings, and the rich peignoir, Camilla Belt was a fine-looking girl ; 
shorn of such plumage she would have passed unnoticed in the crowd 
as plain. She held a Longfellow Birthday-book in her hand, and 
turned to the date of the eighteenth of December. She read : 

“Tis nature’s plan 
The child should grow into the man.” 

She accepted this line as applicable to Mr. St. Nicholas, then 
sought her own destiny, cast in the same poetical mould : 

“There all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still.” 

Camilla had recently returned from a sojourn of two years’ dura- 
tion in Europe, where she had acquired a varied experience, and yet, 
confronted once more by the plain and sober mansion over the way, 
the old feelings of resentment, repulsion, and attraction reasserted 
sway. Why did the St. Nicholas household not wish to know and 
receive her? She might pass them in the throngs of society, out- 
strip and eclipse them by every means of modern display before the. 
public gaze, and, while they quietly avoided collision, she would in- 
evitably be made to feel that she was not such as they were, the 
well-born. 

“Will mademoiselle take her chocolate here?” inquired a sweet 
voice, in French. 

“Yes,” said the heiress, abruptly, and turned away from the case- 
ment. 

‘ ‘ I have arranged the birthday-cards on a little table, mademoi- 
selle,” pursued the sweet voice, which had caressing intonations. 

Camilla placed her hand on the speaker’s shoulder and kissed her 
on both cheeks. 

“ You are an angel, and always think of everything at the right 
moment,” she retorted. “ How did I ever manage to live without 
you, ma mieV ’ 

The companion thus addressed flushed beneath her habitual olive 
pallor, and made a deprecatory gesture. She was very small and 


TULIP PLACE. 


9 


slight, with glossy dark hair becomingly arranged on the crown of 
her head, and her neat black dress of a severe simplicity, relieved 
by immaculate linen collar and cuffs, in marked contrast with the 
lavish magnificence surrounding her. Aimee Rauvier, latest toy of 
the capricious Camilla, had been attached to her retinue as modest 
confidante, to create a French atmosphere in the family, write notes 
to her dressmaker at Paris for Mrs. Belt, and conciliate, as best 
she could, the instinctive hostility of the servants to one in her 
position. 

Camilla seated herself at the table, and was served with a cup of 
foaming chocolate on a tray of Nymphenburg porcelain, whereon 
each picture of chateau, fountain, and hunting lodge reminded her 
of an autumn day spent amidst the parterres and alleys of the 
Bavarian Versailles. The draperies of the doorways revealed a 
suite of six rooms, adapted to the use of the daughter of the house, 
and embellished according to her own caprice of the hour. The 
ceiling was given a low rather than lofty effect by means of elabo- 
rate frescoing, while the walls were decorated to simulate ancient 
stamped leather, with panels of tapestry at the four corners. Chan- 
deliers of Venetian glass wreathed their pale flow r er-garlands about 
the clustering tapers, and lamps of iron or brass filigree swung on 
massive chains from every cornice, or poised, in classical shape, on 
brackets, screens, cabinets, and fragile tables, freighted with trifles 
of jade-stone, enamel, crystal, and bronze ; albums of photographs, 
and portfolios of water-color drawings and proof engravings inspired 
an intruder with that sentiment of discomfort, in the dread of crush- 
* ing, overturning, and breaking the brittle treasures of a museum, 
inseparable to the prevailing taste for profusion in ornamentation. 

Plaques of embossed metal and of richly colored majolica were 
grouped on the walls. Pictures of Moorish maidens, half screened 
behind the lattice, and dusky Arab warriors enveloped in white 
burnooses, spear in hand, on the easels draped with Oriental tissues, 
shot with gold thread and cabalistic symbol, lent their glowing life 
to this interior. An evening on the Nile, the Pyramids glowing in the 
setting sun, against a golden sky, found reflection in the summer 
tempest of an Alpine pass, with a solitary wayfarer driven forward 
by sleet and wind, while the awful doom of threatening avalanche 

r liung poised above his head. 

The India matting of the floor was covered with rugs of Ispahan, 
Teheran, Kermanshah, Mecca, or Madras, subdued in tint, yet with 
velvet reflections of surpassing beauty. Portieres of Syria and 
Karamania mingled their red, yellow, and green hues with the stuffs 
of Diarbekir. A true praying carpet from Dugliestan was beneath 
Camilla’s foot as she sipped her chocolate. A second of Kurdestan 


10 


TUIAP PLACE. 


served as a favorite couch for her dog. Donald Belt’s daughter had 
brought together Arabia, Turkey, and Persia, in her nook of the great 
house on Tulip Place, and the whim pleased her. 

The entrance door, heavily draped in the Eastern stuffs, was 
guarded on either side by a complete suit of mail, superb in work- 
manship, which might have been worn by some knight of a medi- 
aeval tournament. These were Camilla’s men-at-arms, and her fem- 
inine visitors were wont to utter little shrieks of rapture at sight 
of their helmets and breastplates. 

“These paladins make one feel so dreadfully modern and up- 
start!” cried the ladies. 

“Yes, they are lovely and old,” Camilla would respond. “ We are 
new, you know, and must make the best of it. As Artemus Ward 
once said to the Englishwoman, ‘ in our unhappy country we have 
no Tower.’ ” 

Then she had attached a white rose to the cuirass of one sentinel, 
and a red bud to that of the other, grouping on the opposite wall 
shields and weapons to give them suitable countenance — halberd and 
lance, the flexible Malay kriss with hilt of carved ivory, Turkish 
poniard set with precious stones, a Damascus blade with sentences 
from the Koran engraved on the steel, daggers with handles of 
onyx, silver, and pearl; an historical pistol or two, and a sheaf of 
Toledo rapiers adjusted like the spokes of a wheel. 

The atmosphere was warm and redolent of mingled perfumes, as 
if the occupant had massed jasmine and heliotrope in the jars of 
Hizen porcelain on the chimney-piece, covered with gold- wrought* 
damask, rifled from Italian sacristies, and swept aside with a spray 
of peacock’s plumes from brass andirons and screen of the hearth; 
burned a stick of sandalwood before the Chinese idol in his pagoda 
shrine, and wafted incense from the chalice of silver lamps swaying 
before a Madonna and Child of terra-cotta, in the Della Robbia 
school, sheltered by palm-fronds in an alcove. 

Why did the chocolate in the Nymphenburg cup lack the ac- 
customed flavor? Camilla could not banish the image of the oppo- 
site house from her mind, with the son lounging in an easy attitude 
at the window. The sight stung her to active hostility, as in petu- 
lant earlier youth and unreasonable childhood. She was surprised 
and discountenanced by the keen resentment of her own feelings. 
She believed she had wholly outgrown her wrath at the St. Nicholas 
pretensions of superiority. Travel in Europe and the East had 
widened her horizon and matured her estimate of humanity. Tulip 
Place, with its petty differences, had contracted to the narrow limit 
of a street. The progress of the Belt household through foreign 
lands had been one of triumph. In the London drawing-room, the 


TULIP PLACE. 


11 


Paris salon, the Roman palazzo, Camilla liad been received as the 
representative American heiress, her fortune acquiring fabulous pro- 
portions as estimated by French or Italian tongues, just as Donald 
Belt was the representative American citizen and parent. Travel 
had reassured Camilla, while similar experience must have tended 
to teach a St. Nicholas individual insignificance in the great world 
beyond Manhattan Island. Indignation and doubt once more smote 
her on returning to her native land, with William St. Nicholas con- 
templating her, indolently, from the opposite casement. 

‘ ‘ I suppose he finds even my velvet robe ridiculous — mere vulgar 
ostentation,” she reflected, angrily. “No doubt the St. Nicholas 
ladies wear linsey-woolsey of a morning, as in better taste. ” 

Mademoiselle Aimee contemplated her patroness with a certain 
wistful curiosity, the nai've interest of a girl of another sphere, en- 
dowed with the instinctive love of luxury of a young cat fond of 
soft cushions and cream. 

“ The case of mirrors from France has arrived,” she announced. 

Camilla shrugged her shoulders with a movement of indifference. 

“I don’t care for more mirrors, after all,” she said, absently, and 
pursuing her own train of reflection rather than considering her 
companion. 

“Not care for them,” echoed Aimee, clasping her hands together, 
with a little gasp of wonder. 

“We might pave the floor with gold, mignonne, and set the walls 
with precious stones. How would you like that for a fine effect?” 
pursued Camilla, in a tone of banter. 

Aimee accepted the proposition with all possible gravity, a shadow 
on her piquant face. 

“If you wish it,” she rejoined, meditatively. “ It must be won- 
derful, incredible, to be so rich.” i 

Camilla looked at her keenly, for a moment, contracting her eye- 
brows, and then turned to the table of birthday-cards. 

Congratulations had been showered upon the only daughter of 
Donald Belt, couched in many tongues, and every variety of grace- 
ful design ; German knights in mediaeval costume pledging her 
health in a gilded goblet; birds winging their way over delicately 
tinted seas; tiny fans fluttering their greetings; flowers blooming on 
satin, ivory, and porcelain, and enclosing in the inevitable spray of 
forget-me-not souvenirs of rhyme and scene. 

The recipient glanced at them with indifference and tossed them 
over, reserving a few. The first of these was a slender envelope 
sealed with a crest, and having a foreign postmark. On the enclosed 
card a margin of cherub heads, portrayed by a skilful pencil, served 
as a frame for this verse, in Italian: 


12 


TULIP PLACE. 


December’s Cuit/d. 

“O beauty, born in winter’s night, 

Born in the mouth of spotless snow; 

Your face is like a rose so bright, 

Your mother may be proud of you ! 

She may be proud, lady of love, 

Such sunlight shines her house above; 

She may be proud, lady of heaven, 

Such sunlight to her home is given.” 

The initials A. S. were inscribed in one corner, while on the re- 
verse a second design of the clever amateur gave the faint and eva- 
nescent suggestion of ruined aqueduct and temple, broken statues set 
amidst stone-pines, and a cluster of domes visible against the horizon. 

“Roma!” murmured Camilla, softly, and the imperial city wooed 
her, with an infinite suggestiveness, even in the careless lines of the 
drawing. 

“Roma! Italia!” she repeated, and all the latent sentimentality 
of the Anglo-Saxon, Teuton, and Slavonian woman awoke in her 
nature, at the mere words, the intoxication of the Northern tempera- 
ment, prepared to idealize the present race, imbued with a traditional 
and classical enthusiasm by poet, historian, and painter. 

What untold mischief they sow and reap, these credulous, gentle, 
and ardent women partisans of the children of the sunny South, cloth- 
ing manifold imperfection in imaginary virtues ! The noble English 
lady gossips graciously, in stiff French and doubtful Italian, with 
the gargon who serves her at the Continental hotel table, as she would 
never dream of chatting with butler and footman at home ; the ro- 
mantic German quotes Goethe and Schiller to the musician, and 
speedily hearkens to a new melody; the mystical and emotional 
Russian becomes enthralled with the magnetic power of the trage- 
dian, and the serious American occasionally discerns virtues hither- 
to undiscovered by others in the cameriere deputed by fate to dust 
the furnished apartment where she dwells. Dante, Petrarch, and 
Tasso still live to these strangers, with the mist of sunshine in their 
eyes, and the sparkling waves of a blue sea at their feet. Each 
statesman is a Cavour or a Massimo d’ Azeglio in their judgment, 
and every nobleman a Gino Capponi. Thus the tide ebbs and flows; 
other maidens will be born, other matrons beam, other spinsters yield 
to unsuspected tremors as long as there exists an Italy to be explored 
afresh and a people to be improved, aided, and caressed. 

The second card was a tiny etching of Lake Windermere, enclosed 
in a vellum envelope, with the salutation appended, in a firm hand- 
writing: “With best wishes of Vincent Ashwell.” 

Camilla laughed. No idle reverie stole over her at sight of Winder- 
mere. 


TULIP PLACE. 


13 


‘ ‘ Fancy a learned man turning aside from the study of mastodon 
and fossil shell to remember my birthday!” she exclaimed. 

Her fingers trifled with an eccentric design of a sphinx on a blue 
background, with the name appended of Crosbie Ellery King. 

“ So I am the sphinx, the unsolved riddle of womanhood, Colonel 
King?” mocked Camilla. “ You had better give up the study, sir. 
And here is Captain Rawdon, with a basket of violets. No, I have 
not forgotten the dance on board the flagship at Villefranclie, and 
the merry days at the Nice carnival, when the car of Grasse took 
the prize, perfumery promising to outlive the waning corn, oil, and 
wine harvests of the land. What have we here? The card of the 
Marquis Roger de Martinet. A charming gentleman, with faultless 
manners, truly, haunting the Riviera, prepared to fulfil the French- 
man’s code of seeking Nice to amuse himself, Mentone to die, and 
Cannes to get married. You made me your best bow, monsieur, 
urged on by your zealous family. It is a pity your reputation should 
be unfavorable, as a deep player at the Cercle de la Mediterranee and 
the Cercle Nautique, my friend.” 

The simplicity and elegance of this last missive rendered her 
thoughtful. Once more her glance reverted to the St. Nicholas man- 
sion opposite, visible through the casement. 

“We are not good enough for you, but monsieur the marquis 
notices us,” she mused, with a little nod of defiance in the direction 
of the Mordecai in her gate. “I do not object to giving you a 
crumb out of my abundance, though, Mr. St. Nicholas.” 

She selected a little book of pink plush, and wrote across the spray 
of lilies on the page : 

“ One-aud-tvventy salutes five-and-thirty. 

December 18, 18—. C. B.” 

1 

In the meanwhile William St. Nicholas had idly twisted his watch- 
chain, for a moment, and hummed a strain from a popular opera, 
while his eye was attracted by the radiant figure of Camilla, slender 
and erect, in her peignoir of velvet. 

“Yes; I remember very well when you were born, Miss Belt,” he 
said aloud, as if in response to her mutinous glance. “ You were a 
droll little atom of humanity in the nurse’s arms, and I am bound to 
say you have grown up a handsome young woman. Fine feathers 
certainly do make fine birds in this wicked world. Well ! I 
wish every girl in the city of New York had a velvet gown like 
that.” 

With the utterance of this philanthropic sentiment, fresh from 
the bath, and the modicum of sleep which suffices for the nervous 
system of the town-bred man, he joined his family at breakfast. 


14 


TULIP PL A CE. 


Mr. St. Nicholas, a tall and thin old gentleman, with white hair, 
aquiline face smoothly shaven, except for a margin of gray whisker 
on either cheek, sharp blue eyes, and irritable brows, was seated at 
the head of the table, in the act of breaking a soft-boiled egg into a 
china basin of cooked hominy. Such was the invariable first repast 
of a citizen well known for the soundness of his digestion and the 
excellence of his judgment in all matters appertaining to the kitchen 
and the wine-cellar. Conservative in religion and politics, devoid 
of the fibre which constitutes modern reformers, in any field, fond of 
society abroad, and his library and tulips at home, Mr. St. Nicholas 
had been pronounced, on occasion, by an envious dyspeptic, a double 
turretted, iron-clad monitor as regarded turtle soup and lobster 
salad. 

Mrs. St. Nicholas, seated opposite and intrenched behind silver 
urn and steaming milk-jugs, was a tall and thin old lady, wearing a 
false front of uncompromising blackness, and having a dark and 
pinched face of severe expression, with a bluish tip to a long nose, 
and puckering wrinkles beneath the small and suspicious eyes. Al- 
ways plain of feature, with a reddish-brown complexion, the profile 
of Mrs. St. Nicholas had acquired, in old age, a human resemblance 
to certain birds of the parrot tribe. 

Such similarity may often be traced between man and his humble 
relatives of the animal kingdom. 

The plainness of Mrs. St. Nicholas had not prevented her husband 
from ranking as an admirer of feminine beauty, and a gallantry of 
bearing suggestive of the old school of flowery courtesy. 

Their daughter, Mrs. Monteith, a pale and slender woman, with 
the family features too strongly accentuated for beauty, occupied 
one side of the table, with her son Willy, while the vacant 
space opposite still awaited the remaining member of the house- 
hold. 

The dining-room, in common with the rest of the house, had an 
atmosphere of comfort which was old-fashioned. Polished mahog- 
any and carved oak were more in harmony with this interior than 
ebony, buhl, or mosaic. 

William St. Nicholas Strolled into the room, with his hands still in 
the pockets of his plush coat. “ Nobody has remembered that my 
birthday falls on the eighteenth of December,” was his airy greet- 
ing. 

“ A letter, sir,” said a servant, promptly, and presented the large 
envelope despatched across the street by Camilla Belt. 

“You darling boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Monteith. “We have not 
forgotten, and the proof of it is that I am going to coax you to es- 
cort me out to-night. ” 


TULIP PLACE. 


15 


“Anything but that, Alice,” said the brother, examining the en- 
velope with some surprise. “ Where are you going this evening?” 

“ To the Whiteby ball, and you are just as good as you can be, 
Willy—” 

“Halt! My dancing days are over, Alice, and I am not a marry- 
ing man.” 

“ The Whitebys are very good people,” remarked Mrs. St. Nicho- 
las, spying into a cream-pitcher. “ They are descendants of one of 
the first governors of Maryland.” 

“I thought you were about to state, mamma, that the four Misses 
Whiteby came in with the Conqueror,” said the son, employing his 
knife to sever the envelope, as he took his place at table. 

Willy, the younger, laughed. 

“They must be jolly old by this time,” he supplemented, mali- 
ciously. i 

Mrs. St. Nicholas set down the cream-pot. 

“The William of our family is not a marrying man,” she an- 
nounced, with mingled triumph and regret. “I wished our boy 
christened Humphrey or Jefferson, for that very reason, but your 
grandpapa would have his own way in the matter.” 

“I mean to marry,” asserted Willy, the younger, smoothing the 
golden down on his lip. 

Mr. St. Nicholas put on his eyeglass, peered at the envelope, and 
inquired, in a dry tone, 

“ What have you got there?” 

Camilla’s souvenir, the booklet of pink plush, circulated around 
the table. 

William St. Nicholas was amused, even interested. 

“ You see we have the same birthday,” he explained, half vexed 
that he had opened the envelope there. 

“Ah!” observed his father. 

“Indeed!” echoed his mother, with a bridling movement of the 
head. 

Mrs. Monteith was silent, and stole a furtive glance at her brother 
through her drooping eyelashes. 

* ‘ Mammon has returned from Europe more than ever like the frog 
in the fable, I suppose,” said Mr. St. Nicholas, in his most sarcastic 
manner. 

Mammon was the title by which Donald Belt was known in the 
domestic circle of his neighbors. 

“ The daughter comes in for ten millions from her grandfather 
on her twenty-first birthday,” added Mrs. Monteith, pensively nib- 
bling a morsel of toast. “ Do you know, papa, I fear we must bury 
the hatchet and leave cards immediately.” 


16 


TULIP PLACE. 


“Why?” demanded Mr. St. Nicholas, sharply. 

Even now he could not forgive Donald Belt for building his big 
house on Tulip Place. 

“It will be so very awkward to meet them everywhere. We shall 
go to the wall, with our modest purse, before Miss Belt’s ten mill- 
ions,” pursued the daughter. 

“I should like to visit Mammon’s stables,” said Willy, the young- 
er, with the fatal facility of adaptation of his years and his cent- 
ury. The youth wore a blue necktie, fastened with a scarfpin com- 
bining a jockey’s cap in gold and a silver whip. 

“Miss Belt should espouse a king in exile, at the very least,” 
quoth William St. Nicholas, helping himself to potted tongue. 
“You might do worse than leave a card, Alice. She looks like a 
nice girl enough, and they say the sewing-machine man has lavished 
no end of money on her education. ” 

Mr. St. Nicholas pursed up his lips and stroked his chin. Mrs. 
St. Nicholas sighed because of the evil times she had lived to be- 
hold. She knew that her daughter would have her own way, even 
as she banished, from day to day, some antique household relic to 
be replaced with pretty, frivolous bibelots. 

“ Young people are no longer particular in the selection of their 
associates,” she said, in a stately tone. “No wonder the tone of 
society is lowered.” 

“The safest plan is to know every one,” replied Mrs. Monteitli, 
speaking with a slight drawl. “ Willy, if I take this step will you 
support me?” 

“ Yes,” was the indifferent rejoinder. 

“Very good! When Miss Belt gives a ball you will go, provided 
we are invited,” she added, artlessly. 

‘ ‘ Invited !” repeated Mr. St, Nicholas, in a high key. 

“ You will dance with Miss Belt, Willy, although your dancing 
days are over?” 

He smiled without denial or assent, 

“Really, my dear, you are fast settling into a slothful bachelor,” 
said Mrs. Monteitb, lightly. “ Confess that you have an engagement 
to-night to drink beer in some horrid garden, with a lot of Germans. 
Providence intended you for the leader of an orchestra, and not a 
man about town. You are never the slightest use to me on my 
Tuesdays.” 

“Not I,” chuckled the slothful bachelor in question. “Take 
care, Mrs. Monteith, that your perpetual tea-drinking does not lead 
you to fly off on some tangent of the nerves like the votaries of 
Russian pilgrimages.” 

‘ ‘ I hope the originator of days, kettledrums, at homes has reached 


TULIP PLACE. 


17 


the same place of just punishment as the inventor of the piano- 
forte, ” said Mr. St. Nicholas, quitting the table. ‘ ‘ I used to enjoy a 
cosey chat and a friendly call at certain houses, where I flatter myself 
I was welcome. Now there is a rush there once a week to drink 
sloppy tea and eat bonbons. Nobody enjoys it, and nobody says 
anything. Even the hostess has a distracted fashion of making her 
visitors thoroughly uncomfortable by dragging them about, inter- 
rupting conversation, should a man find his tongue, by chance, and 
introducing the wrong people.” 

The daughter bent her head meekly before the storm. All the 
world thronged to Mrs. Monteith’s Tuesdays. 

“What’s the color of Miss Belt’s seal, uncle?” interposed Willy 
Monteith, making a seasonable diversion. “A fellow told me what 
it all means, the other day. Red is business, of course; black, 
mourning; white, weddings; blue, a love letter; pink, compliment- 
ary — By Jingo! it is pink, uncle.” 

“Once there was a man,” said William, the elder, finishing his 
matitudinal cup of coffee. 

“ Well?” questioned the nephew, eagerly. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! I thought your eyes would begin to sparkle, youngster, at 
the prospect of a story. You have not been out of the nursery so 
long, after all. Once there was a man, and his name was Frangois 
Rousseau. He had been a traveller in Persia, Pegu, and the East 
Indies. Consult your French history, child, and see if he did not 
flourish somew 7 here about the end of the fifteenth century. Well, 
he lost all his worldly goods in a great fire at Paris, and, having a 
wife and five children to support, bethought him of preparing the 
first sealing-wax used in Europe. A fashionable dame presented 
him at court, and he earned fifty thousand livres in a year. Imagine 
the sewing-machine man introduced to the French king with his in- 
vention under his arm, instead of Monsieur Rousseau with his stick 
of sealing-wax. Times change. Did you think the tale was to be 
about Jack and the Bean Stalk?” 

“ Perhaps I am not such a flat as I look,” grumbled Willy, with 
boyish vexation. 

“No; I do not believe you are such a flat as 3 r ou look,” retorted 
Uncle William, with quiet significance. 

“ Sometimes it is well to be as much of a flat as one looks,” hinted 
grandfather. 

Willy flushed to the roots of his blond hair at these allusions to 
the escapades of a New York school-boy and collegian of Columbia 
College. 

“You shall not tease my boy,” said the fond mother. “Heap 
coals of fire on his head by giving your uncle the birtliday-gift.” 

2 


IS 


TULIP PLACE. 


Willy presented a tortoise-shell cigar-case to his uncle, while his 
mother added an embroidered tobacco-pouch, all her own work, as 
she warmly asseverated. 

Mrs. St, Nicholas produced a curious box, and disclosed an an- 
tique watch. 

“Take it, my dear, only do not permit a loan collection to have 
it,” she said. 

“Thi£ is too much, mamma,” exclaimed the dutiful son, whose 
reverence for relics was, in reality, of the smallest. 

The watch was encased in silver and blue enamel, with a cipher 
on the cover, while the face was protected by convex and trans- 
parent horn instead of the later modification of crystal. Mrs. St. 
Nicholas liked to believe this heirloom had once belonged to Queen 
Mary, and been bequeathed to one of her faithful maids of honor. 

Mr. St, Nicholas then opened the large prayer-book, and read the 
Psalter of the day, according to the family custom. 

Two hours later Camilla Belt was contemplating the string of 
pearls, of faultless lustre and unusual size, given to her by her fa- 
ther, and the flounces of lace bestowed by her stepmother. Made- 
moiselle Aimee had added, with pretty deprecation, her own humble 
offering in a box painted with a delicate design of the Chateau of 
Chillon, enclosed in Alpine wild flowers. 

A basket was brought Camilla wherein twenty-one cream-colored 
rosebuds nestled amidst ferns and moss. The accompanying card 
read: 

“ Five-and-thirty salutes one-and-twenty. 

December 18, 18 — . William St. Nicholas.” 

Camilla uttered a little cry of surprise, and flushed to the temples. 

Mademoiselle Aimee stood near, with small, brown hands folded in 
an attitude of contemplation. 

“ He possesses esprit, it seems, the American gentleman,” she said, 
pensively. 

“ There is a bud for every year,” said Camilla. 

That evening Donald Belt’s daughter slipped the bracelet she 
wore, a coiled serpent, over both wrists, and, thus manacled, with 
hands behind her back, approached the casket of amber and mala- 
chite where she had placed the birthday-cards, seeking one at hazard. 
The prize she drew was the Italian verse and design; she smiled, 
released her hands, and approached the window, resting her brow 
against the cold pane to gaze forth on the night. 

“As well that one as another,” she murmured. 

Tulip Place was wrapped in shadow. The opposite house was 
dark, save when the movement of a shutter revealed the interior of 
the library, with old Mr. St. Nicholas seated in an arm-chair, his 
% 


TULIP PLACE. 


19 


hands resting on his knees, in an attitude of attention, while his wife 
read aloud an evening journal, her parrot profile in relief against 
the shaded lamp. 

A masculine figure emerged from the door and walked away, at a 
brisk pace. A carriage drew up to receive the floating draperies of 
Mrs. Monteith, then whirled around the corner. 

Camilla Belt saw these things without heeding them. She was 
dreaming of her own future, for the world was before her. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE COUNT DELLA STELLA DISCOVERS AMERICA. 

“ The air xoas calm , and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played."-— Milton. 

On the following day, December the nineteenth, the steamship 
Cristoforo Colombo entered the harbor of New York, having on 
hoard, as passenger, Count Azzolino Della Stella, of noblest Genoese 
lineage, and captain in a regiment of cavalry of the Italian army. 

The steamer had threaded her course from the Mediterranean ports 
across the ocean, with store of works of art, marble, Parmesan 
cheese, olive-oil, and Sicilian fruits in her hold, and such graceful 
human freight as the gallant officer Count Della Stella in the first 
cabin. 

The latter was abroad, as a traveller, for the first time. He ex- 
perienced the curiosity of his race, a little naive, under the circum- 
stances, and was prepared to believe that he discovered scenes long 
familiar to other nations. He had no intention of contributing de- 
scriptions of his travels to some leading journal of Milan, Turin, or 
Rome, nor did his ambition lead him to emulate such brilliant au- 
thors as Edmondo di Amicis in ornate volumes. He was satisfied 
to keep a far ditferent aim well in view, and mature his future plans 
while lounging against the bulwark of the Cristoforo Colombo smok- 
ing rapidly consumed cigarettes. African exploration, Alpine climb- 
ing, South American enterprise of colonization did not arouse the 
indolent strength of his supple form, any more than the evanescent 
ebullitions of a Garibaldean demonstration kindled a spark of flam- 
ing patriotism in his breast. He belonged to Young Italy, inherit- 
ing, in addition, the valor of a warlike ancestry. He was prepared 
to equal in any battle of modern warfare three Frenchmen, and at 
least half a dozen Austrians. 

For the rest, he might hope to command, in his own proper person, 
that immunity from harm enjoyed by the pilgrim of the Middle Ages 
who ventured along the coasts of the Aral and Caspian seas, or pene- 
trated Turchistan and Thibet, with the passport, “lama Genoese.” 

In personal appearance he was a man of attractive exterior, being 
slender and dapper in figure rather than majestic. 


TULIP PLACE. 


21 


“Well made,” was the discriminating, masculine verdict on his 
person. 

“Divinely handsome,” was the softer feminine opinion, too often 
accompanied by little flutterings of the heart and changing color, 
whether on the part of court lady in gala toilet for the opera, or 
peasant girl filling her copper pail at the fountain of her native vil- 
lage up among the Apennines. 

Regularity of feature, a pure and colorless fairness of complex- 
ion, abundant dark hair clustering in curls on a small head, as the 
ringlets wave about the brows of Correggio’s cherubs, hands and feet 
of a symmetrical elegance, were details not noticed at first by the 
observer, save in the suave harmony of the whole. His eyes and 
mustache claimed immediate attention. Nature had bestowed upon 
the count those dark and limpid eyes which have the tranquillity 
of the Neapolitan and Sicilian, and further possess a quality of ex- 
pression best defined by the French as a “magnificent regard.” 
This look, magnetic, eloquent, dominating, and of which the pos- 
sessor may be unconscious, except in results, is rare : the Russian 
and German occasionally have it, in common with the Spaniard and 
Italian. The mustache was eminently characteristic of the owner. 
Chestnut in tint, with golden reflections, of a silky lustre and fineness, 
it imparted a great variety of expression to his physiognomy, now 
drooping about delicately chiselled, mobile lips, as if entreating per- 
mission to salute the hand, cheek, or mouth of beauty, and again 
bristling with a martial fierceness in the cafe or on the promenade. 
The mood of the moment was betrayed, or concealed, at pleasure, 
by the mustache. The soldiers and recruits under his command had 
instinctively learned to note if the glossy fringe of hair w T ere jaunti- 
ly twisted into a spiked point on either side of the face, like twin 
daggers, which might indicate a humor for conquest in the ball- 
room, or suffered to hang dishevelled at the drill on a raw morning, 
when the owner had been known to smite a blundering soldier 
across the mouth for some misdemeanor, although, in the main, he 
courted popularity, as his ancestors had done. The blow given to an 
inferior, the frown, the oath, might be accepted solely as an evidence 
that the count, born in a volcanic climate, possessed nerves of 
unusual susceptibility, and had lost at play the previous night, or 
had just been challenged by a jealous comrade under irksome cir- 
cumstances. 

The mustache, often caressed by the count, concealed a scar, nar 
row and slight, on the upper lip, which would have proved a disfig- 
urement without the appendage. Few persons would have dared to 
question how the wound came to be inflicted; even the countess 
mother, while adoring this only son, viewed the scar with a tolerant 


22 


TULIP PLACE. 


conviction that men will be men, and refrained from extorting con- 
fession of some probable misdeed. The mustache veiled the blemish 
as the vivacity of a naturally joyous temperament clothed the whole 
man with the glow of a brilliant vitality. 

The previous season Count Azzolino Della Stella had discovered 
America, for the first time in his life, and the circumstance had 
rendered him thoughtful, not to say alert. He had now obtained 
leave to explore this terra incognita, and, shorn of the splendors of 
his uniform, he appeared to better advantage than most officers in 
the * ‘ mufti ” of the citizen, while his shoulders and spine maintained a 
military erectness of bearing in tweed and broadcloth. 

Stationed at Rome with his regiment, where he was enjoying the 
brief holiday of gayety accorded by a sojourn in the capital, he had 
met Camilla Belt at an ambassador’s ball. Cynosure of all eyes, the 
American girl had dawned on the count, not decked in feathers and 
wampum, like a second Pocahontas, but surrounded by a dazzling 
halo of wealth so vast that the minute sands of her existenoe seemed 
t to drop gold and precious gems. 

He was a trifle puzzled and relieved to find that the cast of her 
features was European, so complete was his ignorance of the land 
from whence she had come, by reason of his indifference to the sub- 
ject, while her toilet moved the mundane instinct of respect in one 
learning to discern when a woman is well-dressed, and in accord- 
ance with the latest Parisian dictates of fashion. 

The countess mother, in her corner of the Genoa palace, or the 
villa back among the hills, where she managed the sorry remnant of 
estates which had descended to her keeping through the centuries 
of war and violence suffered by republic and city, with all the 
energy of a Maria Della Rovere, was sadly behind the times, in this 
respect ; blooming in the family lace and velvet on august occasions, 
with purple and yellow feathers in her bonnet, only to resume dingy 
w T oollen robes in subsequent retirement. 

At the ambassador’s ball Camilla Belt had worn a web of lace 
over a petticoat of pale - blue satin, and this mesh, so marvellous in 
delicacy of texture, and design of fern-frond, harebell, lily, and clus- 
tering myosotis, was known to possess an historical value, having 
been woven in damp cellars, by human spiders, for a sovereign de- 
throned before the linked threads of painful toil attained comple- 
tion. Camilla’s hair was confined by a fillet of unique design, which 
formed an Etruscan diadem, each point terminating in a black pearl. 

Count Della Stella recognized this diadem as a chef ff&uvre of 
modern imitation of classical workmanship in the art of jewelry, 
revived by Signore Castellani, and valued at some fifty thousand 
irancs. The American had purchased the ornament, and confined 


TULIP PLACE. 


23 


her own hair with it, with the same coolness that marked her bear- 
ing when an awkward dancer rent away a rift of her lace, or she per- 
mitted princes and dukes to inscribe their names on her tablets for 
successive waltzes and quadrilles. Self-assured she certainly was, 
with a shade of assertion perceptible in her manner, and yet no un- 
due boldness could be ascribed to her. She had looked her partners 
full in the face, her carriage straightforward, even blunt, lather than 
embellished with any of the arts of feminine coquetry. 

Donald Belt, a trifle ill at ease, in his dress-coat, amid the rustling 
throng of foreigners, had not appeared at equal advantage with his 
womenkind. He was not amused, he was even extremely bored, for 
after rambling through the vast emporiums of Paris, and having the 
celebrities of the Bois de Boulogne pointed out to him, Great Britain 
remained the sole country -where he could feel solid ground beneath 
his feet, while at the ball of the ambassador unfathomable depths 
and treacherous eddies surrounded him. Camilla’s father knew 
what he wanted in England, which was to push his way into the 
presence of the very great ones, and persuade them, under guise of 
his own respectful admiration, that he was such as they were. 

Mrs. Belt, superb in her rare beauty, had surveyed the scene with 
her inscrutable, veiled eyes and faint smile, winning the approval of 
her hostess for her robe of amber surah and brocade, heavy with 
embroideries of silver and gold, paniers and bodice frilled with 
Renaissance lace, Watteau train attached to the shoulders, and 
white hair brushed over a cushion, and adorned with sprays of dia- 
monds. The small hands of Mrs. Belt, with the fragile fingers and 
slender wrists, encased in creamy gloves of many buttons, had in 
her girlhood served at the washtub of her native village, before 
Donald Belt had peered under her hat brim, discerned her loveli- 
ness, and rescued her from such oblivion of obscure toil. 

The scene still lingered in the memofy of the Count Della Stella. 
He saw the state apartments of the noble old palace, where the sun- 
shine of the Roman springtime lies warmer on the terraces, statues, 
and shrubbery of the adjacent gardens than on the cold and sombre 
Borghese, the mouldy and dilapidated Spada, or even the trim ele- 
gance of the Doria, and where every chandelier and bracket sparkled 
with light in honor of the night. Galleries of tapestry, rooms hung 
with crimson stuff, and enriched with pictures by Giulio Romano, 
Filippino Lippi, and Boticelli, and a hall, with the founder of the 
race enthroned in the apotheosis of the frescoed ceiling, and the por- 
traits of the daughters of the house lining the walls in twin rows of 
pale, gray nuns or court dames, formed a fitting entrance to the 
grand sala, resplendent with constellation of crystal chandeliers, 
gilded cornice, column, escutcheon, and tables supporting antique 


24 


TULIP PLACE. 


busts in the embrasure of each casement, so richly framed in the 
lustrous marbles resembling veined agate. 

Camilla Belt, enveloped in the fleecy folds of her historical lace, 
with the Etruscan diadem binding her hair, mingling with the crowd 
of dancers on the inlaid pavement, which still reveals the furrow' 
made by a cannon-ball, and such garnered sunshine of splendor as 
her stepmother’s brocades, by way of background, had attracted the 
observation of the count, more beautiful, himself, in his graceful 
uniform, than the hero spurring among the rosy clouds of the fres- 
coed ceiling. 

Emulation lent an additional incentive to masculine homage. He 
was not the only man who sought to dance with the heiress of the 
West. The following day he obtained a presentation through the in- 
tervention of a court chamberlain and a foreign representative. His 
commander patted him on the shoulder with encouraging good-hu- 
mor. At the expiration of a w 7 eek he had made a formal proposal 
of marriage. Donald Belt was irritated, Camilla amused. The ar- 
dor with which the count pressed his suit rendered the lady doubt- 
ful of his sincerity. They arrived at the same goal by the widely di- 
verse paths of national difference. 

Offers of marriage had been showered upon the granddaughter of 
Joseph Belt during her triumphant progress through foreign lands, 
with the briefest possible space allowed for the more delicate subtil- 
ties of wooing, in the manifold phases enjoyed by the Anglo-Saxon. 
Landing in Sicily, she had been met by a priest, whom she had never 
before seen, in the interest of a nephew, a young gentleman w'hom this 
zealous kinsman could not too highly commend to her favorable 
consideration. Monsieur the Marquis Roger de Martinet had offered 
himself before acquaintance was ten days old, and after formal at- 
tentions to Mrs. Belt. 

“ Fortune-hunters, with pinchbeck titles, every one of ’em,” Don- 
ald Belt had grumbled, deeply grounded in prejudice against fellow T - 
creatures w hose language he did not understand, and whose ways 
were not as his own. “ If an English duke should step up, Camilla, 
it w r ould be a different matter. ” 

“ English dukes may be capable of making great sacrifices in our 
day, but you cannot expect one to add a sewing-machine to his other 
quarterings,” Camilla had responded, blithely. 

“I wish you would not fling that thing at me w'hen I know noth- 
ing about it myself,” the parent had rejoined, with ill-humor. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” the girl had retorted, kissing him on the 
cheek. “I owe all to the machine, though, and I do not mean to 
be ashamed of it.” J 

Camilla had laughed at Count Azzolino Della Stella, when he 


TULIP PLACE. 


25 


sighed at her coldness, but she had not wholly repulsed him. What 
woman could have wholly repulsed the Count Della Stella? He had 
bidden the family farewell only on the Alpine confines of Italy, with 
many passionate protests of despair, and entreaties to be remem- 
bered. 

“ He seems to be a good sort of fellow,” admitted Donald Belt, 
for whom the count had been at great pains to explain the silk in- 
dustry of the lake district. 

“ He has such beautiful manners,” mused Mrs. Belt; deeply ap- 
preciative of the delicacies of an unfailing courtesy, even as the 
flower of an arid soil may expand under the influence of grateful 
moisture. 

In domestic life Donald Belt was brusque, even severe, a husband 
of unimpeachable integrity, utterly devoid of kindness and consid- 
eration, reserving his surface politeness for the outer world. Mrs. 
Belt had accepted the good and the evil of her lot with the faint 
smile which might mean mockery or melancholy. Without the 
golden robe, and diamonds in her hair, given by Donald Belt, she 
would not have attended the ambassador’s ball. 

‘ ‘ The count quite spoils one for association with common peo- 
ple,” Camilla added, rutninatingly. 

“He is a descendant of the counts of Lavagna, of Genoa, my 
dear,” said Mrs. Belt, with unwonted animation. 

‘ ‘ How learned you are becoming, mamma, in all matters of de- 
scent!” exclaimed Camilla, laughing. “We will elect you family 
historian.” 

Mrs. Belt winced and became silent. 

“We will return to Italy,” Camilla had said to this ardent suitor, 
puzzled by a fervor which seemed to her practical temperament a 
trifle exaggerated, and yet touched by it as well. “Have we not 
drank of the fountain of Trevi, like all good pilgrims?” 

“You will return, but when?” the gallant soldier had echoed. 

Camilla had smiled and shaken her head as the train bore the 
family swiftly away in the direction of one of the great boundary 
tunnels. 

“It is best not to believe all that these foreigners say,” croaked 
Colonel Crosbie Ellery King, in the railway carriage; a sentiment 
approved of by Donald Belt, while arousing swift feminine hostility^. 

Colonel King was abroad on leave, and prepared to don his uni- 
form and maintain ti^e dignity of the regular army, on all occasions 
when such a measure would enable him to shine, in a real or fan- 
cied resemblance, to the late General Scott, in his prime. He had 
been presented at every European court, and attended reviews with- 
out number. A certain graceful queen had not failed to congratulate 


26 


TULIP PLACE. 


him, in stereotyped form, on the possession of a West Point. Florid 
and juvenile in appearance, albeit sensitive as to reminiscences of 
the Mexican war, as a remote period, frequenting Carlsbad and the 
Hungarian mud - baths surreptitiously, Colonel King had attached 
himself to the Belts, with the marked difference in his conduct that 
he openly devoted his care to Camilla, at the expense of respectful 
attentions to the stepmother. 

“Sincerity belongs alone to Americans, Colonel King,” retorted 
Camilla. 

Did she long remember the episode of travel? Intercourse with 
Count Azzolino was agreeable, if no more, and in harmony with 
such surroundings as drifting on Venetian lagoons, and lingering on 
the marble terraces of Como — wooed by the fragrance of orange 
groves, jasmine, and magnolia — whither he had followed her, owing 
to the complacency of that benevolent commander at Rome who 
had patted him on the shoulder. 

Liszt, in 1840, beholding the vision of womanhood floating before 
the entranced soul, and youth, sincere in devotion, wove these united 
forms into the ideal love-tale on the shores of the Lake of Como. 

Camilla did not believe in the Count Della Stella, and the very ar- 
dor of his suit was calculated to arouse suspicion, if not a faint re- 
pugnance, in her breast. 

It has been said that the Frenchman best understands the art of 
talking about love, and the Italian of acting the tender passion, while 
the Russian is accredited with speaking and demonstrating his sen- 
timents equally well, even as the German puts Cupid to sleep, and 
the Pole ruins all. The count’s method was as old as Tasso, w'hose 
sonnets he could repeat, on occasion, with bewitching effect on the 
enchanted feminine ear. 

The suitor did not forget He set himself to acquiring the Eng- 
lish language, with the aid of a decrepit professor. He returned to 
the ancestral halls and consulted the countess mother, who first em- 
braced, and then listened to his plans. Camilla Belt had become the 
load-star of his destiny, and he was prepared to follow her to the 
ends of the earth. 

The countess mother had meditated long, and consented, promis- 
ing to lend her aid and counsel, with the energy which had charac- 
terized the mediaeval women of her house. The noble lady further 
showed herself adaptative to her age. 

“ Meglio dei quattrini nella borsa die un tv&rio nelV immagiazione,” 
she had murmured, seated at her casement overlooking the city of 
Genoa and the sea. 

Her son stood beside her, twirling his mustache, and echoed the 
proverb. 


TULIP PLACE. 


27 


Far back in the remote realms of tradition the counts of Lavagna 
had held these lands, their origin lost in the darkness of tradition, 
with some claim on the stock of the dukes of Burgundy and the 
princes of Bavaria; their rule the same Longobardic laws which 
governed the marquises of Savona and Ventimiglia. Forts and cas- 
tles crested all the hills, sloping upward to the encircling mountains, 
which hold Genoa like the gem of a crown, now blooming with 
olives and gardens. Clash of armor then resounded where to-day 
the peasant prunes the vine, and the laborer draws forth slate from 
the caves wherewith to roof all Liguria. Wise in their day and 
generation were the nobles, seeking the Emperor Frederick I. , when 
he besieged Milan, to pay their homage, and reap such profitable re- 
sults of royal patronage as the right to claim broad estates and ex- 
tort large revenues, to rule the duchies of Parma and Piacenza, 
Massa and Carrara, to buy seventy castles of the Bishop of Lodi; on 
occasion, to form alliances with Spain, France, and Germany in 
those conflicts whose aim was to thwart the enemy of the moment 
by calling in foreign aid. How they shone, in their baronial splendor, 
these Fiesclii, sometime counts of Lavagna, defenders of the public 
liberty, now in exile at Rome, and now delivering the pontiff from 
captivity; with two popes, a score of cardinals, and a hundred or 
more archbishops and bishops selected from the race; their mission, 
as Guelphs, to rival the Doria and Spinola rule; their aim, ever, to 
grasp supreme power! Living, they built palaces on the hill of 
Carignano, adorned with precious marbles, statues, pictures, and 
frescoes, and environed by gardens blooming with rare plants, Avhere 
in feasting, revelry, and the cultivation of letters, while the eye 
ranged over town and port, and thence along valleys and slopes 
towards Nervi in one direction, or sought the shores of Voltri, Albis- 
sola, and Savona, in the other, they might plot the overthrow of ri- 
vals, even as such rivals were striving to compass their own. Dying, 
they were wrapped in silken vestments and cloth of gold, and con- 
signed to the family vault in the cathedral, with appropriate funeral 
orations. Glorious days, when German emperor, French king, and 
Spanish despot used Italy as a chessboard, moving the princelings 
about as pawns to checkmate each other. Those ancestors of Count 
Azzolino played their part in the drama, as parent stem, with many 
branches, of which he was one, until such time as Gian Luigi Fies- 
chi, having ripened his conspiracy, perished beneath the waters of 
the harbor on the dark night that brought ruin to his cause, amid 
confused tumult in the arsenal, stormy sea, cries of galley slaves, 
striving vainly at their chains, and the awakening to consciousness 
of danger of old Andrea Doria. Bitter retribution ensued, for which 
the Della Stella suffered to this day, with castles bombarded, fiefs 


28 


TULIP PLACE. 


seized, estates despoiled, palaces rased to the ground, fit to be the 
scene of a congress of kings, according to Madame de Stael, and the 
affixing of a slab of infamy to that one occupied by the mother and 
son. The slab of infamy did not disturb them in the least, although 
the countess dwelt in a mere nook of the vast residence, renting the 
remainder in apartment, school, office, so that the income thus de- 
rived might yield a little pin-money for the captain in garrison at 
Rome, and keep the villa, sole remnant of the castles of the Middle 
Ages, where rank weeds flourished in the neglected gardens, and 
daffodils grew somewhat too luxuriantly. 

They were at liberty to gather together the shreds of former gran- 
deur, to recall an ancestor who, as a Knight of Malta, was entitled 
to receive an annual pascal lamb, to dwell on the time when the 
lords of Este and Montferrato, the Gonzaga and Visconti, took wives 
from their house, to still make use, as they saw fit, of shrewd mot- 
toes, rightfully appertaining to them, such as “ the world belongs to 
him who will take it,” or “ nous savons bien le temps” 

The countess was not likely to forget that her own alliance had 
been one of industry, the nobles having married the daughters of 
merchants, occasionally, after the weaving of silk became a source 
of opulence to the town, in that curious blending of interests when 
the weaver dropped shuttle and loom to grasp the sword and oar in 
brilliant naval enterprise, conquering Scio or Samos, then returned 
to the spinning which clothed his fellow-citizens in magnificent ap- 
parel, and enriched his descendants. There was even a rumor of an 
uncle in the oil trade, as a calling, in these evil times. Alas! Funds 
of the Della Stella were no longer hoarded in banks, successors of 
that of St. George, the first founded in Europe, on which the simi- 
lar institutions of Holland and England were modelled, together 
with the Arabic system of notation, and the drawing of a first bill 
of exchango on Palermo. Evil times indeed, since the Spanish rule 
had nearly extinguished the germ of vitality, and repeated sieges 
had fallen on the walls, from the day of Louis XIV. to Massena 
and General La Mamora. 

The countess mother, short, fat, and yellow, with nez retrousse, 
several double chins, and shrewd little eyes, played in that public 
lottery founded in 1550 by the Spaniards to pervert the plebeians, 
but she recognized the necessity for other and more urgent meas- 
ures on the part of her son. 

She had bidden him farewell with firmness, then sought a church- 
built in fulfilment of a vow, and as a result of pious discourtesy, 
when a rival faction had bidden the Della Stella erect a sanctuary 
for himself, if he wished to celebrate mass — to pray for the success 
of the present mission. 


TULIP PLACE. 


29 


Thus had Count Della Stella discovered America. He did not 
sally forth attended by retainers, his steed caparisoned with orange- 
colored velvet, laced with vermilion, and having poitrels of silver, 
his plumed cap doffed to the admiring townfolk as he traversed 
the narrow streets of his native city. He did not weigh anchor, and 
steer out of the harbor in a state galley, having at the stern an angel, 
and at the prow spear, helmet, and shield, while standards twain 
caught the light on crimson damask, heavy with gold embroideries, 
and flags fluttered from the poop, bearing the devices of pontifical 
keys, chalices, and crosses, and saloon and deck might invite a bride 
to enter beneath pavilioned domes of tapestry, and be served by a 
crew in satin jackets. Still less did he put forth in a craft like that 
equipped for the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem at Nice, in 1530, 
armor-plated with lead, fastened by means of bronze pivots, manned 
by three hundred warriors, and having a chapel between decks. 
The age was changed, but did the nature of the man materially dif- 
fer from the characteristics of his ancestors? 

On board the steamship Cristoforo Colombo who so gay, patient in 
trifling discomfort, and good-humored as the Count Azzolino? He 
was ever ready to amuse himself and others, and the ship’s company 
owed him allegiance to a man. He was simpatico with the cap- 
tain and officers, and equally at ease with the crew, comporting him- 
self with that charming affability which is so graceful a characteris- 
tic of his class, accepted by the poor as their due, in some sort, with- 
out cringing servility. He was attentive to the ladies, and played 
with the children as naturally as he discussed art with the Ameri- 
can sculptor accompanying home his life-work, the Venus wrought 
of purest Carrara marble, in the hold of the vessel. He sang duets 
with the Neapolitan musicians — the little, round basso, the tall, mel- 
ancholy harpist — prepared to win their way in the streets of New 
York, by means of fiddle, flute, and lazzaroni melodies. Smiles 
and encomiums greeted him on every side, and he wore his laurels 
as lightly as those young nobles who had once spurred through the 
narrow streets on caparisoned steed, or manned the galley of the 
port for conflict with Turk, Pisan, and Sicilian. 

Now the voyage was over, and he leaned against the bulwark, ea- 
gerly contemplating the harbor and city of New York. 

He drew from a pocket-book a card, bearing the name and address of 
Donald Belt, and a photograph of Camilla, attired in the historical 
lace dress, which he had purchased at the Roman photographer’s. He 
gazed tenderly at the pictured face, and murmured words, as if to 
warm and awaken the gray shadow of womanhood to life. 

Then his quick glance reverted to the wide expanse of bay, and 
the spires and roofs of unfamiliar shores. He saw only Camilla 


30 


TULIP PLACE. 


Belt, transplanted and blooming in another soil. He beheld her 
serving as lady of honor to the Queen Margherita at the Quirinal 
Palace, by virtue of his own rank and her fortune. The old pal- 
ace at Genoa once more banished tenants, and opened its halls to 
princely munificence of hospitality; the vineyards of countless hill- 
sides owned in him once more a master. The golden days were 
coming back, all as the ship Christoforo Colombo glided into port. 

At this point in his meditations the count twisted his mustache, 
and hummed the “ Santa Lucia,” perpetually strummed by the mu- 
sicians of the lower deck. ‘‘Per Bacco! How cold it is in this 
blessed land!” he exclaimed, adjusting the furred collar of his coat. 
Heat and cold were alike indifferent matters to him. 


CHAPTER III. 

DECEMBER’S CHILD. 

“ Foul , cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, 

But gold that's put to use more gold begets.''— Shakespeare. 

Camilla awakened the ensuing morning with that sense of well- 
being only possible to the happy and the prosperous in this world. 
The happiness, as a purely sensuous sentiment, must be inseparable 
to an absence from care, equable temper and nerves, and a good di- 
gestion, and the prosperity not too closely sifted in analysis. Ca- 
milla enjoyed both gifts in their fullest measure of complete content- 
ment. She was not beautiful; the fairies having denied her cradle 
the supreme grace of maidenly charm. Her complexion was brown, 
her features massive and irregular, her chin square. When she 
smiled, with flexible, fresh lips revealing large, white teeth, and a 
sudden lighting up of gray eyes, wholesome was a term more appli- 
cable to her personal appearance than attractive. No; she was not 
beautiful, stately, or imposing, but she possessed strength of pur- 
pose, will, and cleverness sufficient for half a score of maidens. 

Such was the value set on herself of a young woman, now placed 
in an exceptional position, whose mother had faded from life after 
bestowing upon a beetle-browed, high-tempered child the poetical 
name of Camilla, as the seal of much novel and magazine reading 
during a sickly girlhood. Camilla had always held her own way in 
everything, for her stepmother had not interfered with her training, 
either from a sense of pride or personal deficiency. 

To rest in one’s bed, and drowsily contemplate the opening day, 
still on the borders of dreamland, is a luxury few mortals can resist, 
despite the warnings of King Solomon. Camilla pillowed her head 
still more deeply in the Malines laces of her couch, in the shadow of 
a blue silk canopy. She was going to live, not recklessly, but joy- 
ously. The winter should be one of perpetual gayety. Her native 
city was destined to behold what she, Camilla Belt, was capable of 
doing to keep the ball spinning right merrily. 

She had read the comparison recently, of society being the great, 
central wheel of a system of mechanism destined to keep all minor 
wheels in motion, and the votaries once caught in its giddy revolu- 
tions could no more escape, except to be flung aside, crushed. 


32 


TULIP PLACE. 


Camilla abandoned herself voluntarily to the monster wheel with 
a delightful sense of intoxication in perpetual motion and excite- 
ment. She tasted, in advance, the sparkling cup of coming triumph. 
Vanity flowered in her breast, not so much in her outward person 
as in the power wielded. Women rulers of all grades in life, from 
queens to serving-maids, have felt the same thrill of conscious su- 
premacy and imperious desire to reign. Half-formed images and 
projects floated idly through her brain, like the rosy fragments of 
sunset clouds. Her eyelids once more fell, and she slept. 

She was awakened, startled, and confused by the sound of a beau- 
tiful voice. She lifted her head and listened, heart and pulses throb- 
bing tumultuously. The voice, mellow, persuasive, tender, had pene- 
trated her slumber, and could only belong to the Count Della Stella. 
Was he calling to her? Where was he? Camilla experienced that 
cold shudder of apprehension to which the least imaginative are, at 
times, susceptible, and which stirs some faint sentiment of supersti- 
tious awe, checking, for the moment, laughter and song. Was he 
dead, the superb soldier of the Roman ballroom and the gentle 
cavalier of the Italian lakes, and some echo of his protest against 
fate been borne to her ear in the morning summons to sudden and 
acute wakefulness? Count Della Stella should never age, know 
sorrow, nor die. To him belonged the perennial freshness of a 
land old in history yet retaining the childhood of a classic era, with 
the blossoming of the grape, the olive, and the fig, and the treading 
out of the golden maize on the threshing-floor. Camilla had not 
thought of the count of late, amidst a crowd of varying incidents 
and occupations, but she rose in a more serious mood than her ear- 
lier meditations had promised, and entered the adjacent bath, which 
was a true temple of snowy marble, decorated according to her own 
whim. 

The bath effectually banished the dream, and, emerging once 
more, her glance sought some missing object in her chamber. She 
had placed the porcelain bowl containing her one-and-twenty birth- 
day roses, gift of William St. Nicholas, on a table near the window. 
The roses were gone. The Frenclkmaid, Maria, had removed them, 
firm in the belief that flowers in a sleeping-room are deadly things. 

“Iam the best judge of that,” said Camilla, and her nostrils quiv- 
ered, evincing rising anger. “ Bring me the roses directly.” 

Maria departed, and speedily returned empty handed. 

“They are gone, mademoiselle! The Englishman threw them 
away because I had placed them outside the door. What would 
you have? Dear young lady! I have known a peasant in Provence 
to fall like one dead when all the world gathered oranges, because 
of the smell of the blossoms.” 


TULIP PLACE. 


33 


Camilla turned from the dressing-table, where she was seated, 
with her chestnut hair falling in a cloud about her shoulders, to con- 
front the culprit. 

“ How dared you touch my roses!” she exclaimed. “ The next 
time you take upon yourself to think for me I will send you back 
to your own country.” 

This threat elicited from the maid many apologies and a flood of 
tears. Her mistress resumed her place before the mirror, with a 
scornful and impatient gesture. She was unaccountably vexed by 
the loss of the roses. The buds forming the links of her years had 
not been accorded time to unfold, much less fade. Camilla had in- 
tended to watch them, muse over their fleeting perfume, perhaps 
press one. The stupidity and impertinence of a servant had thwart- 
ed the aim. 

Two hours later, Camilla and Aimee, equipped for a morning 
walk, emerged from the door of number Ten Tulip Place, at the 
precise moment when William St. Nicholas descended the steps of 
number Five. 

Each recoiled and hesitated, as if with the intention of avoiding a 
meeting, then walked on to the corner, where such an encounter 
would be inevitable, at the crossing. With William St. Nicholas 
the swerving aside was that of a man whose family ignore the per- 
son greeted, and with whom salutations must possess a tinge of con- 
straint, especially if the one encountered be a woman. 

“ Good-morning, Miss Belt,” he said, lifting his hat. 

“Good-morning, Mr. St. Nicholas,” replied Camilla, extending a 
well-shaped hand, encased in a gray glove, with her monogram 
worked on the wrist in black and silver. 

He took the hand, thinking: 

“ She was far more radiant up at her window in the velvet gown, 
than on the street. Distance lends enchantment to most objects, 
women included.” 

Camilla, glancing up at him in turn, made the swift, mental com- 
ment of an impulsive and large nature — 

“He has a nice, sensible face. Yes, he is absolutely handsome. 
I could like him if he were not a St. Nicholas.” 

Aloud, his speech was sufficiently courteous : 

“ I have to thank you for remembering my birthday, and that it 
occurs at the same date as your own.” 

Aloud, her response was equally correct : 

‘ ‘ How kind of you to send me the roses ! The chaplet of my 
years charmed us, I assure you, only I had scarcely had time to ad- 
mire the buds before my stupid maid threw them away.” 

“ del!” exclaimed Aimee, in involuntary dismay. 

3 


34 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ I believe you, cherie /” retorted Camilla, in French, and waxing 
wroth over the recollection. “ The creature had an idea the per- 
fume would make my head ache. She knew a peasant in Provence 
who fainted from the fumes of orange blossoms.” 

William St. Nicholas raised his eyebrows. 

“How deeply rooted is human prejudice,” he rejoined, easily. 
“Less horror of flower scents, and a more lively susceptibility to 
graver evils, might have spared the Latin races some visitations of 
plague and pestilence.” 

Camilla smiled suddenly and brightly on him. She had not in- 
tended to be betrayed into a confidence over the lost roses, but hav- 
ing yielded to the whim, as a girl ever prone to say what she thought, 
a pleasant warmth resulted in the conviction that she had found a 
friend on the curbstone. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, ” she said, in a tone of amiability, the more surprising 
that the cap of old Mrs. St. Nicholas was plainly visible at the win- 
dow of the library, while the aquiline profile of Mr. St. Nicholas 
projected from another casement, ostensibly to test the thermometer, 
swinging on its hook, but, in reality, to spy out the land in the di- 
rection of the young people at the corner. 

“ Good-bye,” he echoed. “Au revoir, mademoiselle .” 

“Are many Americans like him?” inquired Aimee, as the two 
pursued their way. 

“ Yes; plenty,” said Camilla, with decision. “ Why do you ask, 

mignonne ?” 

“ I should call him gentilhomme. He has a certain je ne sais quoi 
— you understand. Ah, mademoiselle, he resembles our Genevois of 
the haute cite ,” cried Aimee, with sudden enthusiasm. 

“Truly,” said Camilla, in the tone of banter she often adopted 
with her pretty companion. “ Now we are making a pilgrimage to 
a certain shrine. Oh, you need not look so serious. I do not in- 
tend to shock your prejudices, you little daughter of Calvin. We 
are pilgrims, although we wear no silver shell on our hats, and carry 
neither staff nor wallet. ” 

She spoke lightly, and her purpose in bending her steps to the 
west side of the town was scarcely more serious. The freshness of 
the morning, with a blue sky and radiant sunshine, induced exer- 
cise in healthy frames. 

Camilla turned in the direction of the Hudson River, for the first 
time since her return from Europe. A cold wind swept in from the 
sea, and cakes of ice ground in heavy, opaque masses against the 
wharves. 

Mademoiselle Aimee, full of curiosity, yet patiently awaiting the 
confidences she felt assured were welling up to the lips of her com- 


TULIP PLACE . 


35 


panion, buttoned her furred jacket more closely, and thrust her little 
hands into the sable muff, recent gift of Camilla. Cold had no ter- 
rors for the Swiss maiden, accustomed to the bise whistling down 
the valley of the Arve, or gathering fresh power on the flanks of 
Mont Blanc. 

Patroness and companion crossed the traffic of several intersect- 
ing avenues, while the length of street stretching before them gradu- 
ally changed from twin rows of brown-stone houses, uniform in 
height and architecture, to shabby brick tenements, with occasional 
gaps of vacant lots, or the dreary length of vast factories, jetting 
forth smoke from lofty chimneys, and humming with the vibration 
of machinery imprisoned within the walls. 

At length Camilla paused, and glanced about her as if unfamiliar 
with the spot. 

‘ ‘ How the place has changed since I last saw it,” she mused, aloud. 

The river was now full in sight, a gray and turbid volume of 
water, ice-blocked, here and there, with a margin of distant trees 
that seemed to shiver in the wind. Nearer at hand was all the un- 
sightly debris of the water-frontage of a large city, extending from 
the shipping, adjacent lumber-yards, and depots of railway mate- 
rials to the manufactories and fringe of brick houses. A pianoforte 
factory occupied one side of the street. 

Camilla inspected this building a moment, then slowly skirted the 
entire square in the rear, avoiding pools of muddy water, heaps of 
dust, and crowds of children at play in the gutters. 

Aimee followed in silence; she inferred that Camilla was seeking 
the house of some poor person with a claim on her charity. 

But Camilla did not enter any of the narrow doors on the two 
avenues or the street, but returned once more to the point of depart- 
ure in front of the pianoforte factory. 

She accosted a young woman who emerged from a small house on 
the corner. 

“ Do you live here? Am I right in telling this lady that we are on 
the Belt property?” 

The young woman paused and reflected before replying, briefly, 

“This is the Belt property.” 

“ 1 thought so, and yet how changed it is,” said Camilla, pursuing 
her own train of reflections. 

“ Everything changes!” retorted the young woman. 

The bitterness and defiance of her tone startled both of her listen- 
ers. She was gone the next instant, leaving the memory of a pale, 
earnest face, resolute in expression, with lips compressed and head 
lowered, as if to meet the keen wind sweeping in from the sea. 

At this moment William St. Nicholas approached at a quick pace, 


36 


TULIP PLACE. 


and, without recognizing either of the ladies, ran up the steps of one 
of the opposite houses, inserted a latch-key in the door, and entered. 

What was he doing here? Camilla mechanically scanned the 
house, which was of insignificant, even dilapidated, exterior, with 
green blinds to the windows. 

“ Why should he come over here, too?” she soliloquized. 

“ Perhaps it is his home,” suggested Aimee, to whom the noise, 
confusion, and dirt of the quarter, remote from Tulip Place, merely 
suggested another phase of town life. 

“ Oh, no,” rejoined Camilla. “Figure to yourself, petite! The 
square of land before you was once a garden in the days when my 
grandfather was young.” 

Aimee nodded. The history was impending, and she was all at- 
tention. 

“ Yes, a garden, planted with cabbages and such things, and with 
a little cottage in the midst, where dwelt a crooked spinster. Do 
you know a crooked spinster when you see one?” 

If Aimee knew r ! Why, these veielles fillcs exist in all lands. 

Then Camilla, partly from need of speech, as uttered thought, and 
chiefly because Aimee was a sympathetic listener, continued her re- 
cital as they retraced their steps along the street to more attractive 
thoroughfares. 

Joseph Belt, the young mechanic, already outstripping his com- 
rades in industry, frugality, and temperance, qualities calculated to 
advance an active intelligence, had coveted the square of land, fore- 
seeing the day when surrounding orchards and meadows must yield 
to houses and a swarming population, w T ith the growth of the town. 
He had made overtures to the owner, boldly proposing to pay the 
large sum of two hundred and fifty dollars for the property, includ- 
ing the weather-beaten cottage, and the heiress had clamored shrilly 
for five hundred, abiding by the counsel of her late parent not to 
lightly part with her inheritance. Joseph Belt had agreed to these 
hard terms, scraping together the requisite money to add to his 
hoard of savings, and with many warnings to the heiress that she 
would not again receive such a liberal proposal. The latter, eject- 
ed, had married, and her descendants inveighed against the man 
whose prosperity dated from the moment of entering into posses- 
sion, and whose foresight was a grievance even unto the first and 
second generation of children of the foolish, feminine Esau, who 
had parted with her birthright for so paltry a mess of pottage. 

Joseph Belt, mechanic, had invented one of the first sewing-ma- 
chines, pondering on the delicate mechanism of wheel and needle 
in the garret of a dingy tenement-house, alike indifferent to winter 
cold and summer heat, holding aloof from the quarrels and revels of 


TULIP PLACE. 


37 


his neighbors. When he took possession of the little house, sur- 
rounded by the cabbage-garden, he had married a girl who had 
waited for him three years. The bride was the first woman to guide 
his invention in the rapid manipulation of tuck, hem, and ruffle, now 
so familiar to her sisters of every land. 

The inventor lived in the primitive cottage, so suggestive of the 
suburban market-garden, while the vegetables ceased to be planted, 
and streets began to encroach on the space once fragrant with lilac 
and syringa bush and the blossoming of locust-trees. He hoarded 
his possessions, and every rood of land was cherished by him with 
miserly caution. The descendants of the heiress knew, to a dollar, 
what each lot brought him when parted with, and embittered their 
own days with unavailing repining. 

Donald Belt was born beneath the roof of these defrauded ones. 
Ambition for the son aroused the parents to the full realization 
that their dwelling was squalid, and set in the midst of a kitchen- 
garden. The humble character of their abode troubled neither hus- 
band nor wife, for themselves, but with the advent of a son both be- 
gan to cherish dreams after their own fashion. Donald was ban- 
ished to a school in the country, of excellent reputation, and his 
subsequent visits to the cottage were made at rare intervals. What 
future career was best suited to him? The mother hinted at enter- 
ing him at West Point. The father pondered on the many chan- 
nels of profession open to a youth capable of commanding such ad- 
vantages as his son. Joseph Belt, self-educated in very imperfect 
fashion, bestowed upon the next generation those facilities lacking 
to his own boyhood. 

The son possessed a sound, if commonplace, intelligence, and, de- 
veloping no preference for a military or professional career, entered 
a bank, as clerk, of which he was destined to speedily become the 
head. He early married a wife of his father’s selection, an orphan 
of delicate constitution and sentimental taste in literature, who 
owned the modest house where the young couple resided, and thus 
obviated the difficulty of a too close identification with the paternal 
roof. 

Joseph Belt lost his helpmate at this date, and refused to aban- 
don the little house sacred to her memory. He came to be known 
as one of the eccentric personalities of a large community, a man 
keenly sagacious in speculation, avaricious, inexorable to a debtor, 
hard to the poor. His creed of hoarding, toiling, and scheming to 
gain more was plainly decipherable on his shrivelled physiognomy, 
in his shuffling gait, his abstracted mien, and negligent apparel. A 
poor old man, hugging his gold for the gold’s sake; all manner of 
tales circulated about the town of the penury of his existence, the 


38 


TULIP PLACE. 


sharp exactions of his bargains, served to swell the miser’s bi- 
ography, if not in literature, at least in the minds of his fellow- 
citizens. The nature of Joseph Belt had shrivelled instead of ex- 
panding. The humanitarian might ponder on the change, striving 
to trace the exact date when the vital cord of sympathy with his 
fellow-creatures had snapped; the town judged merely the result, 
with careless or rueful criticism, according to the amount of indi- 
vidual interest concerned. The sewing-machine had laid the foun- 
dation of his fortune, served as a stepping-stone to manifold invest- 
ments, and been incorporated in a company, yet the invention clung 
to his name, as well as to that of his descendants. 

Donald Belt had chosen other paths from the outset, and his 
parent did not oppose him. The younger man, unsympathetic by 
nature, strove to attain popularity, wished to stand well with his 
fellows, was even fond of a certain display of luxury requiring 
expenditure. 

When Camilla was two years old her mother faded out of life in 
the new mansion on Tulip Place. A curious link of mutual inter- 
est developed, at this time, between grandparent and grandchild. 
Joseph Belt came to his son’s house, and seated himself in an arm- 
chair, with his hands clasped on the knob of his cane, gravely 
scrutinizing the chubby child who was his sole descendant. Ca- 
milla, in turn, grasped his fingers fearlessly, and babbled to him the 
unintelligible secrets of an awakening intelligence. 

The old man broached the expediency of a second marriage, in 
due course. He wished to bequeath his already vast possessions to 
his own descendants. The girl Camilla was too slender a hold on 
posterity. There must be boys, and especially a Joseph Belt, to 
become, in his day, identified with some further phase of develop- 
ment of New York, even as the grandfather had been with the 
early days of the settlement. Joseph Belt possessed the tenacity of 
the limpet in clinging to the rock of his native city. 

Donald Belt listened a trifle impatiently. He was now a rich 
banker, in his own right, and had built the mansion on Tulip Place. 
Ilis ways were no longer those of his progenitor, while his horizon 
daily expanded. When Joseph Belt hinted that he had discovered 
a suitable alliance in the blooming daughter of a wholesale grocer, 
the son promised to consider the matter. The old man’s maxim in 
matrimony was that of the Yorkshire farmer — not to marry for 
money, but to go where money is plentiful. 

Donald Belt, having occasion to make a journey, returned with a 
wife of his own selection, a girl so beautiful that the passer-by 
paused in involuntary surprise to admire her graceful figure, strange 
gray eyes, and blond tresses. 


TULIP PLACE. 


39 


Nobody knew the home or origin of the second Mrs. Belt, any 
more than rumor could determine the reason for her hair turning 
perfectly white at a very early age. 

Old Joseph Belt never forgave the slight put upon his own sagac- 
ity. The bride of his own choice was pretty, agreeable, and pos- 
sessed of a snug fortune. Mrs. Belt, silent, timid, chilled, had not 
a penny in her own right. The cold wrath of a strong nature, 
which could not readily brook being thwarted, became concentrated 
in a disapproval, perpetually alert, sly, and vindictive towards the 
daughter-in-law, whose, beauty adorned the new mansion, and mod- 
ified, to a certain extent, the icy disapproval of Mr. St. Nicholas. 

When a son was born the grandfather said : 

‘‘Let him be christened Joseph.” 

The baby died. 

The following year a second boy saw the light in Tulip Place. 

“Let him be christened Joseph,” repeated the old man. 

The baby died. 

On the birth of a third boy the grandfather said: 

“Let him be another Donald, if you choose.” 

The baby died, and through the silent house a breath, a sigh, 
seemed to sweep, with the warning that the children would never 
return. For the lovely mother remained the retrospection of 

“ Some that never breathed 
The vital air ; others which, though allowed 
That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 

Or with too brief a warning to admit 
Administration of the holy rite 
That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms 
Of Jesus and his everlasting care : 

These that in trembling hope are laid aside.” 

Joseph Belt ceased to notice his daughter-in-law, while a harder 
inflection became apparent in the voice of the husband when ad- 
dressing her. Camilla, child and girl, usurped the sole interest of 
her grandfather, as crown princess to this king already bowing in- 
sensibly in increasing decrepitude before a higher power. The old 
man, together with his little house, exercised an extraordinary fas- 
cination on Camilla, whose active imagination was doubtless stimu- 
lated by those fragments of gossip ever in circulation between 
nursery and kitchen. Her grandfather was not like other men. 
His abode was full of treasures, and gold pieces might be hidden in 
the very walls. A doll, with countenance fashioned from a walnut- 
shell, and surmounted by a cotton nightcap, served as grandpa, in 
Camilla’s first toy house. Her earliest effort in art was a pencil 
drawing of the kitchen -garden, and cottage surrounded by meadows. 

When Joseph Belt fell from the tree of life, a withered leaf, he 


40 


TULIP PLACE. 


bestowed upon his son property to the amount of one million dol- 
lars, ignored his daughter-in-law altogether, and left the remaining 
ten millions to his granddaughter, to be inherited on her twenty- 
first birthday. 

Did clear-headed little Mademoiselle Aimee accept the family 
history at its true valuation, as she returned in the direction of 
Tulip Place, listening to Camilla’s descriptions? The latter had no 
false pride in making frank disclosures of the idiosyncrasies of her 
race. Perhaps she did not value too much the opinion of her com- 
panion, favorable or otherwise. Her mood was communicative, 
and up to the present hour Camilla had invariably consulted her 
own inclinations. Little Aimee was profoundly interested, if no- 
tified at times, by Camilla’s idioms, for she conveyed the Belt rec- 
ord in French, with more of rapid fluency than accuracy. She was 
bound to accept Camilla’s lightest word as gospel, for the latter had 
been kind and generous to her beyond all precedent, and yet she 
could not help judging these people from her own standpoint of 
tradition and education. 

Aimee Rauvier had emerged from the dark little nook of the 
haute cite of Geneva, where dwelt the uncle aud aunt Bechet, who 
had received her, offspring of exiles from Nice, when the French 
annexed Savoy and that portion of the Riviera extending to Ven- 
timiglia. Carefully trained in all maidenly excellences by Tante 
Marthe, learned in matters of theology, the household, the virtues 
of tisanes and tar -water, in their season, as well as the craft of 
needlework, Aimee had attained her eighteen years in the shadow 7 
of the cathedral where lie the Due de Rohan and other illustrious 
dead, and near the Rue des Chanoines, where died John Calvin. 
No less thoroughly educated was the pretty orphan, under the 
active supervision of the Uncle Jacques, with his big nose much 
stimulated by perpetual snuff-taking, his grizzled mustache veiling 
a humorous mouth, and thin locks falling on his shoulders from 
beneath a velvet skullcap. The Uncle Jacques led an exemplary 
life as editor, botanist, politician in one, imbued with pride in 
Charles Bonnet, Berthelier, De Saussure, as well as Francois le 
Fort, minister of Peter the Great, on whom Voltaire bestowed the 
eulogy, “Sans ce Genevois la Russie serait, peut-^tre encore bar- 
bare.” 

Brief space of leisure had the little maiden to listen to the note 
of the cathedral organ swelling out on the place, on summer even- 
ing, or to revel in surreptitious perusal of Rousseau’s “£mile,” the 
book burned before the Hotel de Ville in the good old times. * She 
must seek work early as nursery governess, companion, or assistant 
teacher in a pension to gain her bread. She had taken her courage 


TULIP PLACE. 


41 


in both hands, and descended the steep, narrow streets to seek a 
fashionable hotel on the shore of the lake, then thronged with sum- 
mer visitors. 

Camilla Belt had not only engaged her temporary services, as a 
conversationalist, but climbed the narrow way, crossed the damp 
court, and scaled the winding stair to the dark chamber, with flower- 
pots on the window-ledge, to demand permission of the smiling 
Uncle Jacques and no less complacent Tante Marthe to carry away 
their niece to America. 

Aimee Bauvier had drawn a prize in the lottery of governess, 
and need seek neither remote Russian province nor Neapolitan 
household to gain independence. An ancient maxim of national 
astuteness affirms that ten Jews cannot cheat a Swiss, nor ten Swiss 
outwit a Genevese. The Uncle Jacques made suitable inquiries and 
stipulations, and then consigned Aimee to the safe-keeping of the 
Belt family. Since that hour the waking thought and dreams of 
the girl had centred in them. She traced a part of romance for 
Mrs. Belt, and a future of brilliant prosperity for Camilla. She 
found a motive of loftiest magnitude for Donald Beit’s simplest act, 
as a king of finance, and a citizen of authority, capable of ruling 
his fellow- men. 

Camilla gave some money to a beggar, because she felt more at 
ease, herself, in so doing, and stared, with the swift scrutiny char- 
acteristic of the New York woman, at a passing carriage. The twd 
girls reached Tulip Place in good spirits, and with appetite for 
luncheon. 

Mrs. Belt awaited them, and listened, with her faint smile, to her 
stepdaughter’s voluble description of revisiting the site of her 
grandfather’s home. 

At two o’clock Mrs. Belt rustled into Camilla’s rooms, and an- 
nounced, with an odd inflection of surprise and excitement in her 
voice : 

“That Mrs. Monteith has called, Camilla.” 

“ Has she? Better late than never! Are you gratified, mamma?” 

“I am neither gratified nor displeased,” retorted Mrs. Belt, dryly. 
*“ I don’t care! After Europe everything seems different.” 

“True,” assented Camilla. 

The ladies descended the stairway to the largest of the state 
drawing-rooms of the Belt mansion, and any element of cold con- 
straint at first perceptible in their bearing thawed in the presence 
of the visitor. 

Mrs. Monteith was very affable, amusing, and ingratiating for the 
space of fifteen minutes, and when she again departed it was plain- 
ly understood by both Mrs. Belt and Camilla that the St. Nicholas 


42 


TULIP PLACE. 


family henceforth intended to know them. Were they gratified, 
triumphant, or resentful? They looked at each other in silence, 
for a moment, and then Camilla laughed. 

That evening the opera of the “ Ballo in Maschera ” was succeeded 
by a ballet of unusual excellence. When Mrs. Belt and Camilla 
took their places they observed Mrs. Monteith, with a group of 
ladies, in the opposite box of the brilliant and crowded theatre. 

The ballet opened with a mediaeval scene, towers and gables ris- 
ing against a dark sky, where the moon vainly strove to pierce 
sombre clouds, while in the foreground Superstition, in guise of 
bearded necromancer, held captive in his chains the muffled form 
of Light, or Progress, until the latter broke her fetters and leaped 
forth before the audience a dazzling creature sheathed in glittering 
armor, swiftly surrounded by lovely nymphs of air and sea, pal- 
pitating with life and motion. 

Mademoiselle Aimee clasped her hands, and hung upon the spec- 
tacle with childish delight. Camilla’s glance idly measured the 
depths of the theatre, and reverted to the animated party opposite. 
She saw Mrs. Monteith summon her brother from the rear of the . 
box, speak to him, and point with her fan in the direction of the 
Belts. At the same time her glance and the inclination of the 
head signified to Camilla, ‘ ‘ I have sent my brother to invite you 
to join us for a time.” 

Camilla heard the box door open behind her, while her father 
announced: 

“ I have brought you an unexpected visitor.” 

Then the beautiful voice that had mingled with her dreams of 
the morning added, in broken English, 

“Ladies, I hope I find you in good health.” 

“ Count Della Stella!” exclaimed Mrs. Belt, in unfeigned surprise. 

“I arrived too late to pay my respects to-day, so I came to the 
theatre, where I am so fortunate as to find the ladies,” was the gay 
yet deprecating response. 

Camilla gave him her hand just as William St. Nicholas appeared, 
bearer of Mrs. Monteith’s invitation. 

“ I should like to go,” said Camilla, rising from her chair in the 
front of the box. 

“Come, then, Miss Belt,” said William St. Nicholas, who was 
one of the most unconventional of men. 

Camilla glanced at the count, who stood between them with eyes 
of eloquent reproach fixed upon her face. v ~ 

“No; another time,” she added, and resumed her place. 

Donald Belt bowed the St. Nicholas out, with a sentiment of tri- 
umph, and launched after him a little arrow of explanatory excuse: 


TULIP PLACE . 


43 


“A friend lias just arrived from Europe. He belongs to the 
household of the King of Italy, you know.” 

On the stage the discouraged inventor built the first steamer, only 
to have a brutal peasantry destroy it by means of rhythmic blows 
of hammer and axe, while Superstition caught the winged butterfly, 
Light, and once more imprisoned her in chains, as the violins and 
bass viols shuddered in a tumult of confused sound. 

“So you have come to visit America,” Camilla remarked to the 
count. 

“Yes. I have come because I could no longer remain absent,” 
he replied, in a lower tone. 

The music of the orchestra pulsed on the charmed ear, the tiers* 
of gilded boxes seemed to mingle in shifting colors before the daz- 
zled eye, while in the growing effulgence of day, on the stage, the 
tortuous dungeon labyrinths of the Past crumbled and vanished, 
and Progress once more spurned the thraldom of opposition, soar- 
ing to an apotheosis of triumph, bathed in rosy fires, her crown of 
stars gleaming amidst the clouds, her sceptre directing the course 
of flying messengers, setting in motion the ships on distant seas, the 
fragile cable of suspension bridges, and the hollowing out of tun- 
nels in the mountains for the meeting of the nations. 

William St. Nicholas returned to his sister, and yawned, as he 
stood, with folded arms, in the rear of the box. Bengal lights and 
draperies of pink gauze did not interest him. 

Camilla turned her face slowly towards the count, and their eyes 
met. 

“In our country we call the dance a thought, a wish, living 
poetry,” he said, softly. 


CHAPTER IV. 

DECEMBER’S OTHER CHILD. 

“ The man should make the hour, not this the man.'"— Tennyson. 

Camilla returned home from the theatre in an abstracted mood. 
She replied to her father’s pleasantries concerning the advent of the 
Count Della Stella somewhat petulantly, and turned away from the 
manifest sympathy of her stepmother. 

What did it all mean, the jests and significant glanqes of specta- 
tors? She was half-displeased, vexed, disquieted. She had attained 
her twenty-first year absolutely fancy free. The attitude of the 
count was very different from that of the young men previously 
gathered about her — brothers of her school friends, companions of 
church decoration, summer tours, and yachting parties. She wil- 
fully persisted in viewing the jaunty and gallant Colonel Crosbie 
Ellery King as old, and to be laughed at. Captain Rawdon, erect 
and dapper, with neat little features, a fresh complexion, and black 
whiskers, seemed to her only a fit subject for feminine tyranny and 
badinage. 

The count, on the contrary, stepped forth from the unknown, a 
graceful knight of resplendent lineage. Was it not only too proba- 
ble that Donald Belt’s daughter would present the brimming wine- 
cup of her capricious choice to the stranger in the doorway rather 
than the familiar companions seated at the banquet, after the ex- 
ample of the Greek maiden of old? 

Donald Belt was perturbed, and for the moment diverted from 
many engrossing pursuits, by the coming of the Count Della Stella, 
The banker, in person a florid man of middle age, heavy in stature, 
with a massive nose, prominent blue eyes, a shaven chin, and gray 
side-whiskers, was wholly insensible to the attractions of such a 
suitor. The inherent tyranny of an aggressive character, the irasci- 
bility of a restless temperament, found ample scope in his position of 
increasing influence, but the sole soft sentiment of tenderness in his 
nature centred in his daughter. 

“ I suppose you are aware this count has followed } r ou over here,” 
he said, in the carriage. 

Camilla winced. 


TULIP PLACE. 


45 


“Tlie country is free to all travellers, I suppose,” she retorted, a 
trifle defiantly. 

“The count is a most attractive man,” said Mrs. Belt. “All the 
girls in New York will be wild about him in a week.” 

“What is it to you?” demanded Donald Belt, rudely, and in a tone 
he was only too apt to assume in his own family circle. “Let the 
Italian dance about New York, if he chooses. Professor Ashwell is 
to be our guest, I intend to run down the bay on board my new 
steam-launch to meet the Black Star. I have invited some promi- 
nent citizens to accompany me. I wonder what Mr. St. Nicholas 
will think of our having Professor Vincent Ashwell as a visitor at 
our house in Tulip Place, eh?” 

“I have invited the count to dine with us to-morrow night,” pur- 
sued Mrs. Belt, “Perhaps you will show him the Park, Camilla.” 

“Oh, yes; I will show him the Park, ” assented Camilla. 

She bade her stepmother good-night, dismissed her maid, and re- 
mained alone in her own rooms. How different was the evening 
from the promise of the morning! She was weary, spent, dejected in 
her very indecision. Was she glad or sorry that the count had 
come? She could not determine. Many girls would taste only the 
sweetest triumph in his advent, and play adroitly with the more se- 
rious elements of the situation. There were few elements of coquet- 
ry in Camilla’s nature; nay, fastidious critics found her very gener- 
osity masculine in breadth and vigor. The girl on whose shoulders 
the mantle of old Joseph Belt had fallen intended to do right, ac- 
cording to her lights, and could be very tolerant and kind to the 
weak. She was forced to take the count’s visit seriously, only what 
was she to do with him? She wished, with a sudden warmth of vex- 
ation, that she had never met him, never drank of the Trevi water, 
never lingered near Como in the twilight, breathing the delicate flat- 
tery of his homage. 

She sat beside the table, plunged in meditation, supporting her 
head on her hands. The lamp of Venetian glass, placed on a crystal 
mirror, as a standard, and with a shade in the form of the fluted 
chalice of a flower, glowed like a large emerald in the obscurity of 
the room, defining here the design of a curtain, and there sparkling 
on a metal dish, a water-color sketch, a Pothpeian bronze. 

“I never expected him to come over here,” exclaimed Camilla, 
aloud. “No! Iam not glad to see him. He should have known 
better!” 

The green lamps glowed in the room ; the pictures and statuettes 
seemed to watch her. A blush suffused her cheek as she felt once 
more the pressure of fervent lips on her hand. If she had not en- 
couraged, she had not repulsed him. 


46 


TULIP PLACE. 


In the meanwhile Mrs. Monteith and her brother had reached their 
own habitation, after leaving two ladies at their respective homes. 
Mrs. Monteith parted with these friends with kisses, terms of endear- 
ment, and a renewal of engagements for the morrow. Left alone 
with her brother, she inquired, with an abrupt change of tone and 
manner, 

“Did you invite Miss Belt to join us, Willy?” 

“Yes.” 

“And she refused?” still more dryly and sharply. 

‘ ‘ She declined. I fancy some foreigner had just arrived, ’ ’ negli- 
gently. 

“ Ah ! So soon ? I did not imagine he would come immediately. ” 

“You know him, then?” questioned William St. Nicholas, with 
some surprise. 

The sister smiled in the darkness, and pressed her pearl fan to her 
lips, as if to suppress a yawn. 

“Miss Belt will marry a foreign title, my dear. That is inevitable. 
You do not imagine the impecunious old world will let ten millions 
dowry go a-begging, do you? Camilla Belt has been prodigiously 
advertised abroad, during her recent travels, by her discreet parent, 
and others. Well, from a standpoint of political economy, I heart- 
ily wish the money had not been drained out of the country. Be- 
sides. she is not at all bad, do you know.” 

“ Not at all bad,” assented the brother, speaking with his habitual 
equanimity. “She seems to possess plenty of decision of char- 
acter. ” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps temper,” suggested Mrs. Monteith, meditatively. ‘ ‘ Willy, 
do you never intend to marry?” 

“No.” 

“Have you never met a girl you would like to marry?” plain- 
tively. 

“ Never,” with emphasis. 

Mrs. Monteith sighed. 

“ You know what a blow such obstinacy must prove to our parents, 
dear. You are the last — ” 

“Last of the Mohicans,” he interrupted, mockingly. 

“Men often marry just to please their families, and And themselves 
very comfortable,” continued Mrs. Monteith, gazing out of the car- 
riage window. “Why! I do believe you are laughing at me, you 
horrid boy.” 

“ I do believe that I am. Ah, Mrs. Monteith, your match-making 
schemes are more transparent than you imagine. Confess that you 
have already mated your unworthy brother, in imagination, with 
Camilla Belt.” 


, TULIP PLA CE. 


47 


'‘I shall confess nothing of the kind,” she retorted, with unneces- 
sary warmth of denial. “Do give me the credit for retaining a 
shred of sense, after having lived with you so many years. Camilla 
Belt is not in the market at all, as I have good reason to believe. 
She would not be a suitable wife for you, under any circum- 
stances.” 

“Wherefore, my lady?” he said, in a teasing tone. 

“Wherefore? How can you ask such idiotic questions, Willy? 
Papa would not hear of the thing, and as for mamma, with her preju- 
dices of family, her days would be shortened by having the sewing- 
machine brought under our roof. When I see a nice girl I cannot 
help wishing you would fall in love with her. All gossip about Ca- 
milla Belt is beyond the question.” 

William St. Nicholas smoothed his beard, and remarked, gravely, 

“I saw such a girl this morning. She had just been to market, 
and her cheeks were as fresh as the beets and carrots in her basket.” 

“Willy!” shrieked Mrs. Montefrth, in horrified accents. 

‘ ‘ She dwells somewhere over towards the North River. I think I 
had better seek and ask her if she will condescend to marry me, and 
perpetuate the St. Nicholas line. I dare say she would not have me, 
for she was flirting with the butcher’s boy when her charms first 
stole upon my sight. ” 

‘ * How absurd you are, Willy !” said the sister, laughing. ‘ * I think 
we had best begin to know the Belts this winter. One cannot tell 
what may happen. I must work for my child, you know.” 

William St. Nicholas smiled, in turn. 

When Mrs. Monteith had no further argument to advance in de- 
fence of a premeditated measure, she invariably took refuge in the 
welfare of her son, Willy, the younger, and his suitable advancement 
in life. 

She had married, at the age of seventeen, a handsome young officer 
of the American army, after a romantic courtship at West Point, re- 
turning to the paternal mansion in Tulip Place a few years after, a 
widow, with a little boy. 

Mrs. Monteith was a leader of society, full of animation and cease- 
less activity, with hosts of friends and numerous admirers, accessible 
to all, by reason of a grace of sympathy a trifle artificial, yet passing 
current as genuine coin in the world’s exchange. She could launch 
a sarcasm, venom-tipped, at a rival with all possible amiability. 
Usually attired in black, her tall and slender form acquired an eccen- 
tricity not without charm, in the high shoulder-knots, puffs, and ruffs 
of modern fashion, attributed to the example of the shadowy actress 
Sarah Bernhardt. The long and pointed nose, thin lips, and keen 
eyes of her pale, oval face, as well as the excessive thinness of her 


48 


TULIP PLACE. 


hands, where the rings perpetually slipped and rattled on the deli- 
cate fingers, betrayed a nervous temperament seldom at rest. In the 
routine of winter season and summer journeying Mrs. Monteith rep- 
resented perpetual motion. A brain less clear, a memory less reten- 
tive, would have failed to retain the pressing claims of visiting, shop- 
ping, letter-writing to bosom friends, projects for founding charitable 
institutions, committees for those already existing, all in their routine 
of daily existence. She was prone to enthusiastic espousal of a new 
cause, eloquent concerning visionary schemes of which she would 
shine, herself, as the founder, desirous to play the gracious part of 
benefactress to modest talent, and, above all, a lion-hunter of the first 
order. Unimaginative persons were wont to affirm that the lady had 
a “bee in her bonnet.” 

Mrs. Monteith was known as a writer of verses, with a felicitous 
turn, adapted to certain occasions, and a novel, published anony- 
mously, entitled “ Daffodils and Violets.” The romance had dealt with 
sentiment in lofty strain, and it was well understood in her circle that 
the authoress could do much better work than the rubbish turned 
out with prodigal liberality by the modern press, if she only had 
leisure to devote to literary pursuits. At the same time it was unani- 
mously regretted that “ Daffodils and Violets ” had not been confined 
to the select few, by means of private subscription. 

Willy Monteith met the carriage at the curbstone, and assisted his 
mother to alight. 

“ Such a lark, mamma!” he announced, gayly. “We fellows are 
going to give a series of soirees at the Bachelor’s Club. We have 
been making out the programme this evening.” 

“My darling boy, you must not become an old bachelor,” replied 
Mrs. Monteith, taking his arm to ascend the steps. 

William St. Nicholas sought his own rooms on the third floor, and 
lighted his meerschaum pipe. He was good-humored, with the pla- 
cidity which implies indifference, as a rule, but he found his sister’s 
conversation more annoying than amusing on this evening. Surely 
she had been even a little tiresome with her matrimonial hobbies. 

He had attained his thirty-fifth year almost without incident, ex- 
cept of his own choosing. In public estimation he was an easy-going, 
perhaps insignificant person, who failed to assert a distinct individu- 
ality, as his father’s son should have done. He was utterly devoid of 
ambition, and preferred, like the Orientals, to hire his dancing done 
for him by others to mere physical exertion, while each recurring 
season found him less inclined to meet the claims of society. He 
was the only son and chief cause of sqlicitude to parents stanch in 
adherence to the tenets of their family creed, and narrow in preju- 
dice as to admitting broader lights of innovation. Given a house- 


TULIP PLACE. 


49 


hold of brothers, William St. Nicholas might have chosen a career, 
and filled it with honor to himself and his kindred. As it was, his 
mother would fain have trained him in some dame school, in infancy, 
and allowed scarcely more of wholesome liberty in boyhood. His 
father was no less scrupulous. When other topics failed, the old 
couple could still ponder on the position of their boy, and how he 
must comport himself under such and such circumstances. 

Mr. St. Nicholas still treasured a note in the most secret recesses of 
his desk, addressed to him many years before by his admiring fellow- 
citizens, and requesting his acceptance of the nomination of Mayor 
of the city of New York. He had declined hastily, even testily, re- 
luctant to soil his hands with politics. Occasionally he reverted to 
the note, inspired by a certain vanity, and even inscribed the date on 
the envelope that no error might result, when his own autobiography 
should be written. Had he flinched from the performance of a duty? 
The doubt still troubled him, at times. He had shunned politics, 
and his son must, also, avoid the strife. 

Private tutors had prepared William for college. What other 
portal could open for the youth than Columbia, sometime King’s 
College, with reminiscences of William Samuel Johnson, Benjamin 
Moore, or John McVicar still fresh in the memory of his mother? 

At this date the son fiercely rebelled. He cast tutors and schools 
to the winds. He wished to become a sailor, to enter the navy, to 
cruise far, far away from Tulip Place, amid coral reefs and icebergs, 
to inhale, with full lungs, the breath of the tempest in mid-ocean, to 
feel the stillness of the Arctic dawn. The revolt amazed and alarmed 
his relatives. In the family conclave held in the library there were 
expostulations, entreaties, even tears. William disliked the library 
ever after. The lad yielded to the will of his parents, and went to 
college submissively, if sullenly. He even enjoyed a fair share of 
youthful recreations, in the way of oyster suppers and billiards. His 
college term expired, he dutifully read law. His docility w r as ad- 
mirable and commendable, but he distinguished himself in nothing. 
He was permitted to travel, and speedily returned home, caring little 
for foreign lands. His mother smiled, well pleased with the course 
of events. His father experienced a shade of disappointment in the 
result. Acquiescence a little less ready to the household fiat of 
preference, and far less dulness of perception of passing events, in his 
son would have gratified the paternal pride of Mr. St. Nicholas. 

William’s disinclination to matrimony did not disturb his mother. 
She had him all to herself a little while longer, and he was safe from 
evil influences, she reasoned, with maternal selfishness. Mr. St. Nich- 
" olas, on the contrary, had been rendered uneasy, even suspicious, by 
the equanimity of his son. He would have preferred irritability, fu- 

4 


50 


TULIP PLACE. 


rious outbreaks of discontent, restless moods. When one of Will- 
iam’s comrades showed himself clever in the professions, or even 
brilliantly popular in society, the father felt a pang akin to jealousy. 
Why was not the eloquent orator, capable of moving all hearts, the 
surgeon who had grasped some of the secrets of his century by 
means of superior intuition, the scholar, already allied to his fellows 
of other lands, irrespective of language, by those bonds of intellectual 
affinity alone found to exist between men of science, his boy? Was 
it sufficient to be merely a man of leisure? 

Once the weapon of reproach had pierced the paternal armor of 
self-complacency. William had thrown aside a review, with com- 
pressed lip, quivering nostril, and frowning brow, to hastily quit the 
room, as if fearing to lose all control in speech. Old Mr. St. Nich- 
olas had taken up the periodical, smoothed the crumpled sheet, and, 
spectacles on nose, sought the source of his son’s emotion with con- 
siderable curiosity. He found it in an article on the gallant exploits 
of an American naval officer in the East, who had landed, with a 
band of marines, in season to save a town from a rebel horde of in- 
vaders. Would William have wished to fill the part of the naval 
hero? That was a boyish folly best forgotten by this time. Mr. St. 
Nicholas found his offspring a trifle heavy for his years, and visibly 
losing elasticity of gait, manner, and mind, such as evince some 
mainspring of action in character. William showed the most amia- 
ble side of his nature in his family circle, yielding to the foibles of 
his father, petting his mother, teasing his sister, and contemplating 
the youthful escapades of his nephew with patriarchal benevolence. 
He never waxed warm in argument about any matter. He accepted 
the world as he found it. He cared nothing for the gods "worshipped 
by his progenitors, the volumes of a well-ordered library, the tulips, 
even the ancient sun-dial on the stable wall, in the rear of the gar- 
dens. He poked fun, in unseemly fashion, at the memory of his an- 
cestors, and when reminded of the glorious deeds of his own grand- 
father, on the maternal side, indulged in wholly irrelevant musings 
respecting the grandfather of the milkman, who, in the sequence of 
nature, must have had one. He was stained with no ineradicable^ 
blemish of vices, but he was not invariably an interesting companion. 
In his youth he ha{l been thwarted "when he would have chosen a ca- 
reer. Voltaire affirms that no genius has ever found the light except 
in opposition to near relatives. If William St. Nicholas possessed 
talent he gave no sign. He was one of that numerous class of hu- 
man failures who, dissatisfied, remain inactive, watching the work of 
others, brooding in regretful thought. “I might have achieved as 
much if I had realized the occasion in time, or been given the same 
chance,” is the plea of the supine and the unfortunate, 


TULIP PLACE. 


51 


Then had dawned a day when a radiant goddess claimed him as 
her slave, and he had obeyed her summons, half wondering that he 
had not earlier yielded to her spell. The goddess was music. The 
brotherhood of musicians of all nationalities, ages, and conditions had 
been received and welcomed by him, from the prima-donna, fresh 
from fatherland, to the poorest violinist of the theatre orchestra. 

William St. Nicholas assured himself he had found his sphere. 
He organized a musical club, where all notable strangers were re- 
ceived and the needy given aid. He began to collect rare musical 
instruments in his room, and a library dealing only with his favorite 
study. Insensibly he acquired tone and semblance of his chosen as- 
sociates. His beard became luxuriant, he smoked a meerschaum pipe 
in preference to the cigar or cigarette, he drank beer. 

A shabby back parlor on one pf the city thoroughfares eastward, 
where a game of dominoes was the sole diversion, and a bowl of po- 
tato salad the chief refection, afforded him more enjoyment than the 
most brilliant reunion frequented by his sister, provided he could 
listen to a Berlin professor, a Munich impresario, a Leipzig composer 
descant on the respective excellences of Mozart, Mendelssohn, and 
Wagner. Suspected of the superficiality of the dilettanti by a severe 
and inexorable master, he fed humbly on Bach and Mozart until such 
time as he was-permitted to taste the dangerous sweets of Beethoven. 

“Music will keep him out of mischief, I dare say,” Mr. St. Nicholas 
remarked, in the bosom of his family. “A man who practises daily 
on the French horn and the cornet-Apislon, not to mention the piano- 
forte and organ, has no leisure— or wind— left for worse deeds.” 

Personally Mr. St. Nicholas abhorred music, especially the classical 
school in which his son delighted, and on more than one occasion, 
after submitting to philharmonic and symphony concerts, was pre- 
pared to exclaim with Weber’s contrabasso: 

“ I have a tolerably strong constitution, and could just hold out.” 

His own preferences did not prevent his suspending on the wall of 
his son’s chamber an illuminated strip to the effect that a man who 
hath not music in him is fit for stratagem and treason. 

His world sat in judgment on William St. Nicholas. He was not 
such as they, his tastes led him among shabby company, his ways 
were those "of Bohemia; a somewhat vague term, implying the dis- 
reputable. He had been seen to carry out an old coat to the organ- 
grinder at the corner, to the inexpressible indignation of the St. 
Nicholas servants. He belonged to the innovators, who follow stray 
lights which may lead them among the quicksands, and develop the 
fool or the crazed madman as often as the hero and martyr. The 
innovators are a class to be suspected and thwarted, by society, at all 
hazards. 


52 


TULIP PLACE. 


Women accepted liis peculiarities with a wistful leniency. Moth- 
ers said to their budding daughters : 

“If any girl could catch Willy St. Nicholas, and lure him away 
from his fiddles and his German beer -drinking, what a triumph it 
would be!” 

This sentiment led to the bestowal of those gushing attentions on 
old Mrs. St. Nicholas and Mrs. Monteith which the mother and sis- 
ter of an eligible man rarely fail to receive. 

Speculative rather than creative, richer in sensibility than the artis- 
tic faculty of action, William St. Nicholas had grown to like the soli- 
tude of his own meditations or a book, for he was an indiscriminate 
novel-reader, craving amusement rather than instruction in didactic 
form. The novel was not recreation from work, the turning aside 
from sober and harassing routine for refreshment in pure fiction ; 
unlimited leisure permitted him to share the adventures of the hero 
and sympathize with the misfortunes of the heroine at all hours of 
day or night. As a natural result the romance frequently bored him, 
and he tossed the volume aside with contemptuous impatience. 

Was William St. Nicholas a man of imagination? Would work 
with him be other than so much of the achievement in this world, 
scientific and mathematical in principle, a model of symmetry result- 
ing from careful education, yet extremely dull and uninteresting in 
result? Did he possess the true, supreme, and divine gift which 
flashes upon and overwhelms judgment and outlives time? 

After bidding his sister good-night he had sought his rooms with 
a feeling of unusual discontent. His face wore a sombre expression, 
as he moved about the chamber, restlessly, pipe in mouth. He was 
weary of Alice’s chatter, and the glib prattle of her friends in the box 
at the theatre. In his own mind he compared these ladies to the 
birds of an aviary, all chirping, and fluttering perpetually on uneasy 
wing. 

He approached the window, and opened it to admit the frosty air. 
His abstracted eye scanned the opposite mansion, where the lights 
were not yet extinguished. A green star burned in the window of 
Camilla. He seated himself at a desk, selected a sheet of paper, and 
wrote on it : 

THE BIRTHDAY. 

Operetta. 

By William St. Nicholas. 

It was his virgin effort at composition. He had grouped the en- 
gravings on the wall after the fancy of Bourbet of uniting music and 
painting, by placing, in friendly juxtaposition, Handel and Michael 
Angelo, Gluck and Caravaggio, Mozart and Domenichino, Beethoven 


TULIP PLACE. 


53 


and Rembrandt. Did any of these silent spectators aid liis effort? 
He sought inspiration neither from the champagne-cup of Rossini, 
the missals and classic authors of Zingarelli, the midnight darkness, 
lighted by a single taper, of Sarti ; the hot fowls and smoking Bologna 
sausage of Aufossi. 

All about him the musical instruments were equally mute, the 
harpsichord of the last century, with painted lid, the Japanese harp, 
inlaid with silver and pearl, the collection of primitive drums and 
fifes, fashioned by Abyssinian skill. 

Camilla speedily regained her habitual confidence. “The count 
is at liberty to visit New York,” she said, aloud. “ I intend to wel- 
come Professor Ashwell as well. How many strings you have to 
your bow, Camilla! Live your little day, my dear!” 

\ 




CHAPTER V. 

PROFESSOR VINCENT ASHWELL DISCOVERS AMERICA. 

“ By fair Ligea's golden comb , 

Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks, 

Sleeking her soft, alluring locks." — Milton. 

On t-lie twenty-first of December the steamship Black Star reached 
the port of New York, after a fair run from Liverpool, and having 
among her passengers of the first class Professor Vincent Ashwell. 

Although no longer young, he was now making a first voyage 
across the ocean, having, in his own personal experience, recently 
discovered America. 

He was a slight and pale man, with clean-cut features, thin lips, a 
closely shaven chin, and a pair of bright gray eyes, protected by 
spectacles with steel rims. The black hair on his temples was thin- 
ning, while the crown of his head was bald, and the fringe of whisker 
on his cheek already grizzled in tint. 

Having discovered America, the country and people interested 
him to the entire exclusion of former pursuits, which were thus held 
in abeyance, for a time at least. Not only was he deeply interested 
in America, but there was rapidly developing in his soul an anxiety 
for the future of a great people, and a desire that they should be 
guided by his lights, and no other. The British colonial standard 
must still prevail, in his opinion, or if wavering in the shifting currents 
of a vast emigration — German, Scandinavian, and Irish — it should 
be his duty to re-establish it on firm ground. With this highly com- 
mendable end in view the professor was now approaching the land 
of promise, a number of carefully prepared lectures on scientific sub- 
jects in his portmanteau, and a goodly store of letters of introduc- 
tion in his portfolio. The lectures had already won him fame in 
London, while the introductions covered the field of American social 
life, from the Boston literary circles, the New York millionaire, or 
the Philadelphia railroad magnate, to the Chicago, St. Louis, and 
New Orleans citizen. 

Professor Ashwell attached more value to introduction than does 
the average American, and would have manifested the same care in 
getting himself well presented had his destination been Montenegro 
or Kamtchatka instead of the States. 


TULIP PLACE. 


Prominent among these letters was one from Donald Belt, con- 
taining a warm invitation to sojourn beneath that gentleman’s roof 
during a stay at New York. 

Professor Ashwell lighted a cigar, and leaned against the bulwark 
of the Black Star, surveying the harbor and distant shores. Then 
he took from the pocket of his portemonnaie a small photograph, 
bearing the name of a noted photographer in Regent Street. This 
was a vignette of Camilla Belt, with her hair drawn low across the 
brow, and wearing an English jacket, with gilet , and standing col- 
lar of masculine aspect. 

He scrutinized this trophy of sentiment furtively, and even a trifle 
shamefacedly, as if he feared intrusion on his private interests, on 
the part of his fellow-passengers, and restored the card to the pocket 
once more. 

He was deeply concerned f^r the tendencies of transatlantic 
politics, scandalized by the management of the Indian question, 
amazed that students able to seek foreign education should more 
frequently flock to the German universities than to English colleges, 
and aggrieved that all existing complications of the home govern- 
ment should not move America to loyal indignation against Kaffirs, 
Abyssinians, and Egyptians, not less than perplexed by amicable re- 
lations with the arch-enemy, Russia. 

Would these matters have acquired tangible form in his mind 
had he not carried the photograph of Camilla Belt in his pocket- 
book? The tendency of the day to acknowledge the importance of 
the great republic, and the desirability of making a lecturing tour 
of a remunerative sort through the lands of the West might have 
penetrated, at length, and checked the routine to which he had given 
himself up for so many years; yet the girl in the English jacket, 
with features somewhat heavy and dark in the photograph, had 
served as the keynote of sudden and swift resolution. 

Professor Vincent Ashwell was a native of Bristol, and the younger 
son of a clergyman. He had early quitted the vicinity of the iron 
and brass founderies, and the haunts of the coasting trade of his 
cradle, for a public school, where he had enjoyed his full share of 
that discipline so largely dwelt upon in bitter or humorous retro- 
spection in modern British autobiography. Medicine proving his 
choice of profession, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and 
studied subsequently at the Hospital of St. Bartholomew* in Lon- 
don. Unusual diligence and perspicacity in preparing a museum 
catalogue which required vast labor and profound research gained 
for him the post of curator of the institution, and decided the bent 
of his future career towards natural science rather than the practice 
of medicine. The student began to climb slowly and steadily, with 


56 


TULIP PLACE. 


the ultimate goal of the British museum in view, which he had at- 
tained in due season. The years had borne fruit of honorable toil 
to the lecturer, zoologist, and paleontologist. If he was not the 
“ Cuvier of England,” he enjoyed a certain popularity for agreeable 
manners, eloquence, and tact, while commanding universal respect 
for his more solid attainments. Society had opened her doors to 
him since he had written a memoir on the Pearly Nautilus, that 
most poetical shape of the myriad dwellers of the sea, while his 
great work on the Anatomy of Vertebrates brought him a foreign 
medal or two. 

For the past ten years Professor Asliwell had led that double life 
which is the best calculated to preserve a man from rust, in a 
metropolis where the friction of events stirs even the currents of 
the lecture-room. He spent the day, and often the night, in patient 
research and absorbing study, but he varied the exactions of such 
routine by playing a rubber of whist at his club, of an afternoon, 
and dining out. He was a guest in great request, being cm courant 
with the latest item of news about illustrious persons, and capable 
of telling a neatly turned story, or making a witty addition to the 
current conversation, without arousing the jealousy of the true wits 
other than to respect his own latent powers. 

Journeys had been undertaken by him only at rare intervals, and 
with entire reference to the lower Silurian beds of Bohemia, or the 
•strata of silicious shells of infusoria in Sweden. It is to be feared 
that America existed for him, at this date, only as a land where the 
city of Richmond might be located on a strata of marine origin in 
ttye Tertiary age, certain interesting footprints of the Triassic period 
be traced in the sandstone of the valley of the Connecticut, or un- 
told treasures be discovered in the great carboniferous basin of Ohio. 

“Goodness knows what people do out of England,” Professor 
Ashwell had conjectured on more than one occasion, as he took his 
seat at the whist-table, while the fog settled on the club window, 
with a glimmer of yellow gas jets visible here and there through 
the dull opacity of uniform vapor. 

He spoke with the comfortable conviction of the mortal born in 
one of the centres of the universe, and duly appreciative of all the 
attendant privileges. 

During the previous season he had given his best labors, scientifi- 
cally speaking, to the stringing together of the bones of an extinct 
animal, and was surveying the result, with his own spine and head 
aching from the protracted task, when his partner at whist looked 
in on him, and bore him away to a sale of the artistic effects of a 
dead marchioness, once famous for her beaut}', and sometime an 
actress of saucy, soubrette parts at a suburban theatre. 


TULIP PLACE. 


57 


The partner at whist was Colonel Dashwood, a retired Indian 
officer, a plethoric old gentleman of pugnacious temperament, with 
a rubicund complexion, an erect bearing, and a white mustache. 
The Amen corner of a club remained for the soldier, after an active 
life, and he was also a collector, who derived amusement, not only 
from haunting London sales, but made a visit to the Hotel Denot, 
the special object of crossing the Channel, and even sought the pre- 
cincts of certain German antiquarians, en route for Carlsbad and 
Baden, renowned for their hoard of faience, arms, enamels, and 
sacred vessels, gleaned from ancient Bavarian monasteries and 
bishops’ palaces. 

Professor Ashwell had yielded to the whim of his friend with 
the more readiness that his head ached and his entire nervous system 
required relaxation. 

The two gentlemen mingled with the crowd at the sale, the one 
as an amused spectator, and the other imbued with the enthusi- 
asm of a connoisseur, now examining a Sevres cup and saucer of yel- 
low ground, decorated with flowers, through his double eyeglass ; a 
Chinese celadon green vase, a Louis Seize candlestick, and again 
pausing to descant on the merits of a portrait of Madame de Pompa- 
dour, the beauty ,of a marqueterie secretary, or the value of a medal- 
lion. 

Professor Ashwell listened to the dissertations of his companion, 
admiring the objets (Part, with the abstraction of one superior to 
these trifles by reason of a more intimate acquaintance with the 
mastodon and the dinornis. 

The gem of the collection was an antique bracelet, worn by the 
marchioness, in her prime, on an arm rivalling in faultless s} r mme- 
try the living sceptres of Grecian or Persian favorites of Darius and 
Alexander, once adorned by the same ornament. 

Robbed of all association, the bracelet w T as in the shape of a modern 
bangle, having at the ends two winged sphinx-heads, and still bear- 
ing traces of the enamel wrought by the craftsman who journeyed 
from the banks of the Ganges to foreign courts, or worked in the 
doorway of his dark little shop, melting, moulding, and engraving- 
in sight of the busy street. A perfume of beauty lingered about the 
relic of centuries, rescued from oblivion by an enterprising traveller. 
From the favorite of the conqueror’s court, who had lost the trinket 
when feasting beneath the silken dome of the tent, to the marchioness 
of the footlights the imagination had free scope for poetical reveries, 
culminating in the desire for possession. 

Colonel Dashwood yielded to the charm, as had a young lady in a 
blue redingote, wearing a small billycock hat, decked with a bird’s 
wing. 


58 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ I wish it,” said the young lady, in cool and quiet accents. 

When the sale took place, and the bidding on the classical bauble had 
become animated, Colonel Dashwood had come to the front, inspired 
by the keen interest of the collector. The young lady in the redin- 
gote proved a rival competitor, imbued with feminine obstinacy in 
addition, and it came to be understood that the person who persist- 
ently outbid Colonel Dashwood was no tool of the auction-room, de- 
puted to lead him on, by skilful manipulation, but the agent of this 
stranger. The prize fell to her at one thousand pounds’ valuation, 
and she received it, clasping the bracelet about her wrist, outside of 
her buff Swede glove. Had the ornament been a circlet of garnets 
or turquoises from the Ponte-Vecchio at Florence, or one of those 
serpentine links of silver which impart to the movements of a 
woman a continual rattle, as of spurs and armor, she could not 
have been more collected and indifferent. Who was the stranger? 
An American, evidently, from her speech and bearing. Rumor even 
entered the salesroom with her, and accorded Camilla Belt a fort- 
une of two million pounds. Colonel Dashwood lost his temper; 
even Professor Ashwell was a trifle aghast. Testy in temperament, 
and with hereditary gout ever lurking in his system, the colonel 
had never discovered America, and cherished deeply rooted preju- 
dices against that country, if allowed to exist at all. As the two 
gentlemen departed he inveighed in no measured terms against the 
presumption of his fair antagonist. Colonel Dashwood could ill 
brook interference from such a source. 

“This sort of thing should be put down, you know,” the irascible 
and baffled collector had proclaimed, at the corner of the street, 
pausing, with his furled umbrella held under one arm, while the 
glow of wrath still suffused his cheek and glistened in his prominent 
blue eyes. 

Professor Ashwell assented. The incident rendered him thought- 
ful. He began to level his telescope on the distant shore to which 
he had never before given heed. He emerged from the Pliocene 
period, so to speak, to be presented to Donald Belt at Claridge’s Ho- 
tel, where the latter was sojourning with his family for the sea- 
son. He discovered America in the person of Camilla, who embod- 
ied to his mind the fulfilment of the physical geography: “As the 
plant nourishes the animal, so America is made for the man of the 
Old World. The two are face to face, and incline towards each 
other. The Old bends towards the New, and America looks towards 
Europe.” 

Pausing near the bulwark of the steamship Black Star Professor 
Ashwell beheld, instead of the harbor and city of New York, an 
agreeable future for himself, with a congenial helpmate by his side, 


TULIP PLACE. 


59 


a house in Mayfair, where the dite of the world would gather, a 
country-seat near his native town of Bristol, a cottage of his own 
building on the bank of a river in Norway, with exclusive rights to 
the salmon-fishing, and the founding of various scholarships, in due 
course of time. 

On board the steamer Professor Asliwell was a personality dry 
and cool rather than warmly sympathetic to all sorts and conditions 
of men; just as he detested cricket, boating, and tennis, preferring 
the quiet pastime of fishing. He exchanged pleasantries with the 
bluff old captain, who enjoyed the usual reputation of Atlantic voy- 
agers of the class, that he had never lost a ship or a life. He chatted 
with the actor, tall, sallow, and slender, enveloped in an ulster, who 
paced the deck with complacent step, building air-castles as to his 
welcome in the theatre of America. He avoided the professional 
beauty, surrounded by a bevy of admirers, and whose lightest mot , 
smile, or frown would be carefully treasured by those fortunate 
enough to receive either. He was equally wary in his intercourse 
with the British lady traveller, whose energy of purpose was second 
only to his own, and would lead her to investigate the States very 
thoroughly and describe her adventures, subsequently, in the saddle 
or on foot, in compact volumes. 

His reveries were interrupted by the arrival of the steam-launch 
Camilla alongside of the Black Star. The little craft, upholstered 
with velvet and silk, and gleaming with brass, steel, silver, and pol- 
ished woods, glided gracefully through the waters, her mission to 
welcome Professor Ashwell. The Union Jack fluttered at her mast- 
head. 

“Really this is kind!” said the guest, skipping nimbly on board, 
and shaking hands with his host. 

Donald Belt, beaming with satisfaction, and feeling the eye of the 
Black Star to be upon him, presented Professor Ashwell to the 
party of gentlemen grouped on the deck. 

The beauty bridled, and bit her lip. Surely the steam-launch 
should have been some fairy craft, adorned with flowers and silken 
canopies for her acceptance! “Lucky beggar !” quoth the actor, 
gloomily. 

The lady traveller had her revenge for the slight thus put upon 
her own merit. She peered over the ship’s side and made a note of 
the incident. She expressed grave doubts of the solidity of Profess- 
or Ashwell’s scientific attainments ever afterwards. 

The latter sped away, undisturbed by these envious ones. Disem- 
barking, he was driven to the mansion on Tulip Place, where a cor 
dial greeting awaited him from Mrs. Belt and Camilla. 

The party of gentlemen dined with their host, and Professor Ash- 


60 


TULIP PLACE. 


well noticed the addition of two guests. Old Mr. St. Nicholas, erect 
and dignified, was placed at Mrs. Belt’s left hand, while the pro- 
fessor himself occupied the right. A foreigner, handsome, viva- 
cious, and graceful, devoted his attention to Camilla farther down 
the table. 

The recent voyager felt that his lines were cast in pleasant places. 
He partook of American delicacies as interpreted by a French 
chef of unusual excellence, and served on a national dinner-set 
adorned by native artists and fabricated at Limoges. His soup was 
presented in a plate modelled in shape of the mountain laurel, with 
a green turtle exploring a Florida reef in the bottom, and an agree- 
able company of crabs and shrimps adorning the border. Salmon 
lost none of the delicacy of flavor that the red-snapper of the Gulf 
of Mexico chased a butterfly fish across the porcelain surface, nor 
game its richness that in discussing it he was required to contem- 
plate a prairie chicken escaping a prairie fire, and a ptarmigan’s 
bath in the Rocky Mountains. 

There was a hum of conversation pervading the room, a glow of 
subdued light shed on rich and harmonious appointments, a beauti- 
ful woman, with snowy hair and startled eyes, seated at the head of 
the table. 

Professor Ashwell glanced at Camilla, and bethought him of three 
gifts treasured in the depths of his portmanteau. Would not a 
young lady who had secured the antique bracelet at a London sale 
be pleased with such fruit of recent Egyptian explorations as a neck- 
lace of beads— onyx, agate, carnelian, garnet, and turquoise— long 
hidden in a stone jar in a cellar? Donald Belt was destined to receive 
a pack of Hindustani cards, in a carved ivory box, presented to 
Colonel Dashwood by a high-caste Brahmin, and consisting of eight 
suits of divers colors, the kings being mounted on elephants, and 
the viziers upon horses, tigers, and bulls. A tea-service of old 
Chelsea ware was intended to move the feminine enthusiasm of the 
hostess. 

“I find your country very beautiful, mademoiselle,” remarked 
the Count Della Stella, contemplating California quail feasting 
on grapes and grain, with a golden sky for a background, on his plate. 
“ Will you make of me an American?” 

‘ ‘ Our host is truly a representative man, and deserves imitation 
in other lands,” said Professor Ashwell, with affability, a buffalo 
caught in a snow-storm, and surrounded by gray wolves and coyotes, 
glancing up at him, with baleful eye, from his plate. 

“Yes,” assented Mr. St. Nicholas, with an ironical smile. 

The moment would have been propitious for an experienced 
hostess to speak, but Mrs. Belt w r as dumb. 


CHAPTER YI. 

A FLOWER BALL. 

“ We are puppets, man in his pride, and beauty fair in her flower."— “ Maud.” 

That season the last day of the year fell on a Thursday. 

At eleven o’clock in the evening a carriage paused before num- 
ber Ten Tulip Place, and a gentleman, enveloped in a cloak, alighted. 

The gentleman was the Count Della Stella, and his equipage 
formed one of a file of vehicles extending the length of the street. 

The house of Donald Belt presented an aspect of unusual anima- 
tion, lights sparkled in every casement and shed abroad a glow from 
the effulgent illumination of the interior on the snow and ice of the 
pavement. A carpet had been spread from the entrance door to the 
curbstone, while a curtained canopy served to protect the rapidly 
arriving guests from the piercing wind as well as to frustrate public 
curiosity. 

The count, traversing the carpet, in turn, was caught by a floating 
spray of roses which escaped from the wraps of a pretty blonde. 
Apologies, smiles, and the careful disentanglement of the garland 
resulted ; an incident of trifling importance rendered impressive by the 
gentleman, by look, a gesture, the attitude of a willing captive. 

These matters were second nature to him. Wrecked among 
the icebergs of an inhospitable zone, his bearing would have been 
chivalrous to the ladies, clad in fur, whose destiny it is to consider 
the seal and the walrus, rather than the ballroom roses. 

Entering the marble vestibule, he found himself in an atmosphere 
of warmth, perfume, and light. His whole being expanded to these 
congenial influences, the cold and the darkness of an unfamiliar 
city were left outside. The scene charmed his senses the more that 
he tasted, in advance, the sweets of full possession. The kingdom 
was fair enough to warrant a certain triumph in the conquest. 

He divested his form of the heavy military cloak in a convenient 
dressing-room, and surveyed his reflected image in a mirror critically, 
yet with satisfaction. 

The invitations had been given out for a flower ball on this last 
night of the year, with the additional request that gentlemen should 
appear in costume. 


62 


TULIP PLACE. 


The Count Della Stella personated Christopher Columbus. He had 
calculated on this effect, in advance, and his attire consisted of steel- 
gray silk fitting his shapely limbs with the accuracy of an acrobat’s 
hose, and ribbed by the skill of French looms to resemble the links 
of chain-armor, while corselet of silvered pasteboard completed the 
illusion. He wore about his neck the heavy links of a gold chain, 
with a medallion attached, and a close ruff which framed his un- 
covered head and imparted a marked elegance to his whole appear- 
ance. Taking a furled banner in his hand, he sought his hostess. 

The tiles of the vestibule, the lamp suspended by bronze chains, 
the larger vases containing shrubs, were tulips, iridized in metal, and 
enamelled in majolica to a semblance of the stately flower. 

Donald Belt thus paid fitting tribute to the locality where he was 
permitted to reside, and heightened the prejudice of old Mr. St. 
Nicholas, the lawful cultivator of the bulb by inheritance. 

Flowers bloomed everywhere on this occasion, from slender 
palms and velvet-leaved exotics lining the corridors, or flanking the 
broad stairway of carved oak, to the angles forming bowers of pink 
and white azaleas. Here the harvest of countless hothouses was 
massed in gigantic vases, placed on console, bracket, and chimney- 
piece, or freighted each window-ledge with a wealth of delicate 
fragrance and color. Roses clung to the velvet portieres of doors, 
bloomed in gilded baskets, twined about the pedestals of chandeliers, 
formed pyramids at every turn, mingling their sweetness with 
hyacinth, mignonette, and violet in screens of ferns and smilax, and 
laid their richest tribute of trembling petals about the base of statues, 
spurned by the light foot of Echo holding a horn to an attentive ear, 
encircling a lost Pleiad searching vainly for her celestial sisters, as 
she floats through space on her cloud couch, herself a dream of the 
unfulfilled in Carrara marble. 

The count entered a reception-room, where, with the delicate ac- 
cessories of blue hangings and silver lace-work of decoration on 
ceiling and cornice enhancing the charms of her presence, Mrs. Belt 
received her guests, the numerous groups constantly claiming her at- 
tention effectually concealing any deficiency of warmth in her tone 
and manner. 

The hostess personated a thistle. Her robe of silver-gray tulle, 
worn over satin of the same hue, was held in folds by the flower of 
silver, studded with diamond dewdrops. Sandals of gray satin 
shod her slender feet, the fan she carried was painted with the same 
device, and her white hair, rolled back from the tranquil and regu- 
lar features, was crowned by a diadem formed of the stubborn weed 
in such fashion as to admit of a profusion of brilliants twinkling 
amidst the spikes of leaf and thorn. 


TULIP PLACE. 


63 


“ What a beautiful woman,” thought the count, as he approached. 
“ She is an alabaster lamp without oil. She needs kindling to flame 
by means of some emotion.” 

At the moment of his approach Donald Belt was engaged in con- 
versation with his wife, and a visitor in the attire of the sixteenth 
century. 

‘ ‘ I have transformed myself into Sebastian Cabot in honor of your 
ball, Mrs. Belt,” said this cavalier, who manifested surprising gay- 
ety in the character assumed. “Iam also a native of Bristol, you 
know.” 

Mrs. Belt smiled, and her glance strayed beyond Professor Ashwell 
to the Count Della Stella. 

“Here comes Christopher Columbus, if I am not mistaken,” she 
said, with unwonted animation. 

The count bent low over her hand, while his caressing glance 
conveyed the subtle admiration of his thoughts. 

“ Cristoforo Colombo, I salute thee! Benissimo!” said Professor 
Ashwell, with ready good-humor. 

The two gentlemen exchanged greetings. They had already met 
several times since the dinner-party beneath the same roof, where 
Professor Ashwell was established as a guest, while the count had 
become a daily visitor. Possibly each experienced a sentiment of 
surprise and annoyance to find the other had anticipated his own in- 
tention by appearing as the discoverer of America. In the feminine 
breast similar rivalry would have occasioned pique. In the world 
of science astronomers sometimes find their telescopes trained on the 
same unknown star. 

A lady, leaning on the arm of her escort, interrupted the badinage 
elicited by the situation. 

‘ ‘ Good-evening, Mrs. Belt ! How deliciously your house lights up, 
Mr. Belt. Yes; I have here my brother, Mr. William St. Nicholas, 
as the Commodore Van Ivortlandt. He always had a fondness for 
the sea, you know, so we must permit him to rule for one night, at 
least. Bon soir, Monsieur le Comte . How good of you to have dis- 
covered us, at all! I always make a pilgrimage to your native 
Genoa just to thank you for the deed, in the name of all America, 
as I pause before that marble statue of Columbus. And Professor 
Ashwell as Sebastian Cabot! This is too kind. We feel ourselves 
to be almost unworthy of so much attention from the old world; do 
we not, Mr. Belt? Where are Amerigo Vespucci and Ponce de 
Leon, and all the rest of them? What have you done with my boy, 
Mrs. Belt?” 

Thus spoke Mrs. Monteith, voluble and animated, as usual, extend- 
ing to the gratified Donald Belt the tardy approbation of her presence, 


64 


TULIP PL A CE. 


at the precise date when his daughter inherited a fortune. The co- 
incidence of events wounded him, as it had done his wife and 
daughter on the occasion of the call, but he accepted the situation, 
finding in it the guinea stamp on his own gold-piece of position. 

Mrs. Monteith had laid aside her black garments, and appeared, a 
presence suave, delicate, and distinguished, as a lieart’s-ease. Her 
robe of purple velvet was relieved by lighter draperies of lilac 
cr6pe, fastened with clusters of the large, richly tinted pansy, which 
also decked her bodice and the braids of her brown hair. A neck- 
lace of dull gold and amethysts encircled her throat, and similar 
links were wound about her slender arms above the long lavender 
gloves, embroidered with a pansy on the wrist, while a gilded chalice 
held her bouquet of the same flowers. 

“Your son is receiving with Camilla in the ballroom,” replied 
Mrs. Belt, her glance mechanically noting the details of Mrs. Mon- 
teith’s toilette. “ May I take you to him?” 

“ Oh, no!” protested the guest. “You have so many people to 
manage here.” 

“ Allow me,” interposed Donald Belt, offering his arm. 

The master of the house was not insensible to the consideration 
he would reap by the occasion. The sheep of this world huddle 
together, helplessly, under similar circumstances, awaiting a leader, 
to scamper in mad pursuit of some fresh pastime. Mrs. Monteith 
was such a leader. She required no management, having fallen into 
the grasp of Donald Belt as the partridge, all roasted, from the 
heavens. The gratification of the man who courts public applause 
and craves association with the best class within his range permeated 
his being. 

Professor Ashwell, after some playful argument with Christopher 
Columbus on his right of precedence, placed himself on the other 
side of Mrs. Monteith, and, with her brother following, the party 
sought the ballroom, and the presence of the actual hostess, Camilla. 

William St. Nicholas had lent himself to the spirit of the occasion 
with unusual animation, and his costume of Oloffe the Dreamer had 
inspired his mother with countless souvenirs of the earliest settle- 
ments of Mannahata, and the neighboring shores of New Jersey and 
Long Island. 

The Flemish doublet and hose, the broad hat, the cavalier collar, 
were worn with a certain dignity, while the bristling mustache 
served as an effectual disguise. 

Count Della Stella separated himself from the group by an adroit 
movement. He had no intention of entering the ballroom either 
with Sebastian Cabot or the Commodore Van Kortlandt. He per- 
mitted himself to glance after them with a swift gleam of irritation, 


TULIP PLACE. 


65 


disdain, and even animosity in his fine eyes, as he hit his mus- 
tache. 

The arrangement of the interior was harmonious, and by the 
judicious mingling of light and shade imparted the illusion of greater 
space than actually existed. Several smaller rooms, linked together 
by archways, draped with silk curtains, and furnished with inlaid 
cabinets, gilded chairs and sofas, in a profusion of modern luxury, 
opened beyond on a library, lofty, dark, and obscured rather than 
illuminated by hanging lamps of Venetian brass, which cast sub- 
dued reflections on the carved bookcases, the embossed leather of 
the walls, and the sculptured reliefs of a chimney-piece, flanked by 
a collection of rare Moresco pottery on shelf and bracket. 

A tea-room, vermilion-red in hue, and lighted by means of painted 
lanterns, with fans, gongs, and umbrellas suspended in the four 
corners, and pagoda-shaped cabinets, adorned with dragons, con- 
taining a great variety of eggshell china, had on either side a tiny 
chamber, sombre brown in tint, with golden reflections, enshrining 
the Daimio bronze and Satsuma ware of Japan. Here the votary of 
the fragrant herb might linger to partake of the favorite beverage, 
whether served with cream, lemon, or sweetmeats. 

Beyond was the dining-room, with its massive buffets, wainscot, 
and columns of polished wood, and chandelier of crystal. 

The count had followed Mrs. Monteith to the picture-gallery, which 
gave immediate access to the ballroom, and here paused, with a 
swift glance of disapprobation at the party. Why did his dislike 
concentrate, as it were, on the stalwart back of William St. Nicholas? 
Sensitive to impressions, rapid in conviction, with a mingling of the 
emotional and the subtle in his own nature, the count might have 
been unable to define his sudden aversion to these strangers. His eye 
roved along the gallery without heeding the pictures grouped on the 
walls, panels, and garlands of roses interlacing the art of Gerome and 
Meissonier with that of Gifford or Carl Becker. Far above his 
head the blue vault of ceiling was defined by a circle of gas-jets, 
mellowed by colored shades, which shed rays down on the inlaid 
floor. 

He turned aside into the conservatory, where, in the twilight made 
by an occasional silvery globe, broad-leaved plants drooped over the 
fountain’s brimming basin, while chrysanthemums rose in tiers 
of snow against the crystal walls of partition. Farther on the 
shimmer of rainbow plumage indicated an aviary. 

The ballroom was dazzling with light, and already full, although 
dancing had not commenced. At an earlier hour Camilla had 
made a little mocking reverence to her own reflected image, and 
laughed: “Yes; it is delightful to be young, happy, and rich.” 

5 


66 


TULIP PL A CE. 


The ballroom was her surprise and triumph for the town. The 
apartment, built in the rear of the mansion during the recent ab- 
sence of the family, was rich with gilding and white enamel. Three 
chandeliers sparkled with a profusion of wax tapers, while bracket 
candelabra, supported by golden cupids, lined the walls between 
tapestries of silk embroideries, cream-yellow in tone. Above the en- 
trance door the gallery for musicians was screened by yellow roses ; 
while at the farther extremity of the room two gigantic mirrors, 
decorated for a grand duchess by a Florentine artist, seemed to lure 
the visitor to their depths in the reflection of the brilliant scene, be- 
tween columns of slender bamboo, lotus, fern, and quivering myo- 
sotis, painted on the margin. 

The first object noticed on entering the ballroom was a pavilion 
of purple velvet, the curtains heavily fringed with gold, and looped 
back to reveal the Sun, seated on his throne, with Phaeton standing 
on the step below, and a priestess still lower, on a level with the 
guests of the evening. In the back of the pavilion a scene repre- 
sented the Earth as an orb, on the right hand, peopled with men and 
animals, and the Sea on the left, with Doris and her daughters dry- 
ing their green hair on a bank of the foreground, while Tritons 
sounded their shell trumpets in the adjacent waves. A glow, as of 
carbuncles and rubies, was shed upon the God of Day, crowned with 
a gold coronet, his blond hair and beard floating over his royal man- 
tle of amber and purple, holding a glittering sceptre in his grasp. 

“I believe we have succeeded in astonishing the natives,” whis- 
pered the priestess. 

“We shall get into the daily papers,” echoed Phaeton. 

“ I say, Miss Belt, may I dance after a while?” pleaded the Sun, 
speaking in a muffled voice by reason of his false beard. 

“ Of course you may dance,” retorted the priestess. 

She was clad in white satin, as Priestess of the Sun, embroidered 
with the helianthus, her tunic of yellow lace attached to draperies 
of deep - brown plush by means of a large sunflower and trailing 
leaves. Her well-shaped shoulders and firm, white throat rose 
above a wreath of leaves which decked her corsage, while her hair 
was Gonfined beneath a full-blown soleil of gold. She carried a com- 
panion blossom by the long stem in her fingers. 

Camilla was looking her best. Excitement, blended with triumph, 
dilated her gray eyes beneath the level brows, and curved her mo- 
bile lips in a ready smile of welcome to the rapidly increasing 
throng. All the world was present, as Camilla was aware, to bow, 
praise, scan, and criticise the deportment of the Belt household on 
this occasion. Camilla did not fear their judgment. She was pre- 
pared to amuse and receive all these people, using a prodigal gener- 


TULIP PLACE. 


67 


osity to attain the end. Her composure had in it a touch of inso- 
lence which her father did not find unbecoming. 

“ How wonderfully well you do these things over here,” Professor 
Ashwell observed to Mrs. Monteith, as they crossed the ballroom to 
the steps of the pavilion to greet Camilla. 

“Do not flatter us too much,” disclaimed the widow, laughing. 
“We are only imported articles de Paris, every one of us.” 

Young Phaeton, in tunic of golden silk, and mantle of cerulean 
blue, an embossed cuirass on his breast representing the hero driv- 
ing the chariot of the Sun to the discomfiture of a universe, made 
his little speech : 

* ‘ I have come to the temple of my father, the Sun, to beg to be 
allowed to drive his chariot. ” 

“Take care the horses do not run away with you,” admonished 
Mrs. Monteith, imparting a dexterous maternal adjustment to his 
mantle. 

William St. Nicholas shook hands with Camilla. 

“ I need not remind you, Miss Belt, that when I had the vision at 
the foot of the tree on the Jersey shore which gave me the name I 
bear of Olotfe the Dreamer, and the good St. Nicholas appeared to me, 
smoking the pipe that created the cloudy semblance of spires and 
roofs, I also beheld your ball of this evening,” he said, with assumed 
gravity. 

Camilla glanced up at him quickly. Was he ridiculing her osten- 
tation? 

“I have a plan of my early home, the Bowerie, in my wallet, 
which I must show you later,” he added, jestingly. 

“ Are you fond of the old-fashioned haunts of the town?” she in- 
quired. 

She recalled the locality where she had seen him during her morn- 
ing walk. At the same time a sudden doubt came to her if the sun- 
flower head-dress were not absurd. 

“No; I cannot say that I am,” was the careless rejoinder. 

At this juncture the Count Della Stella appeared in the opposite 
doorway. He was alone; and, as he approached, by a skilful move- 
ment he unfurled the banner carried in his left hand, as if about to 
plant the standard of Spain on a virgin soil. 

The stranger became the cynosure of all eyes; there was a flutter 
of movement and questioning in the feminine ranks; men smiled. 

“ How theatrical!” murmured Mrs. Monteith, behind her fan. 

“ One has the right to be theatrical at a fancy ball,” said William 
St. Nicholas. 

Camilla changed color perceptibly when she read the eloquent 
meaning in the count’s eyes. Did he find favor with the sole worn- 


68 


TULIP PLACE. 


an he sought to please by appearing as Christopher Columbus? 
How beautiful a knight he was ! The corselet and mediaeval armor, 
the enfolding banner, separated him from the elements of a modern 
ballroom. He was there for her sake. He reminded her of Lohen- 
grin telling the wondering Elsa that he comes from a far country in 
the echo of the swan’s song. 

A few groups of dancers had begun to glide over the floor tow- 
ards the decorated mirrors. Suddenly a bell sounded a single 
stroke for midnight, clear, silvery, and vibrating, and the music 
ceased. A light glowed in the conservatory, and forth flitted a tiny 
creature, child and fairy, shimmering with tinsel frost on wing and 
white robe, a wreath of snowdrops on her head. 

“I wish you a happy new year, ladies and gentlemen,” she 
said, her little pipe suggestive of the footlights. 

The New Year, distributing bouquets of yellow rosebuds, with 
ivory tablets bearing Camilla’s monogram on the cover attached, to 
the ladies, vanished as she had come. 

There was a momentary pause for the interchange of greetings, 
and then the younger hostess arranged a quadrille of honor, as a 
suitable opening for the revelry in store. Mrs. Belt and Professor 
Ashwell stood opposite Mrs. Monteith and the Count Della Stella. 
Other sets were speedily formed, until the mirrors gave back a par- 
terre of human flowers ; Hindustan having sent her Marigold, Egypt 
her Heliotrope, Assyria her Water-lily, Persia her Pomegranate Blos- 
som, to mingle in the mazes of the dance, with the Iris of Juno, the 
Myrtle of Venus Aphrodite, the Olive and Violet of Minerva, in satin 
and silk of delicate, pearly lustre, billowing in waves over damask, 
brocade, and velvet. 

Donald Belt, surveying the scene with his smile of public benevo- 
lence, became aware of the entrance of an eccentric figure. This 
was a man wearing knee-breeches of olive velvet, shoes with silver 
buckles, a black coat with wide skirts and large gilt buttons, a 
cocked hat, and a queue of gray hair. He carried a cane which 
reached as high as his chin, with a silver knob, and a bundle of 
papers under his arm. A gray beard concealed the lower portion 
of his countenance. 

He advanced to his host, and tendered his card, on which was in- 
scribed, in old-style type, the name of Diederich Knickerbocker. 

“The fame of your entertainment has reached even me, you per- 
ceive,” said Diederich Knickerbocker, surveying the scene with 
amusement. 

“Iam proud to welcome you, sir,” said Donald Belt. 

“A very pretty effect. I congratulate you,” added the affable 
Diederich. 


TULIP PLACE. 


69 


Mrs. Monteith, chatting with her partner, in the interval of danc- 
ing, contrived to raise her lorgnette and inspect the new-comer. 

“I prefer Naples to Rome,” she said, lowering her glass once 
more. ‘ ‘ I should like to retire to the Island of Ischia and write 
sonnets— become a second Vittoria Colonna.” 

“ Madame is that already,” replied the count. 

“ Of course I wish to see Niagara as soon as possible,” Professor 
Ashwell was saying, at the same moment, to Mrs. Belt. “ What as- 
tonishes me are the vast distances in your great country.” 

Mrs. Belt assented coldly. She was a silent woman who posed 
well in magnificent raiment. Perhaps she was wise in refraining 
from too frequent speech. She was not even a good listener, be- 
cause intelligent attention necessitates a sentiment of interest in 
speaker or subject, and Mrs. Belt manifested neither requirement. 
Professor Ashwell, assuming his cheerful mien of the evening hour 
with the costume of Sebastian Cabot, was conscious of a chilling va- 
cuity, as if his own footsteps echoed through an empty hall. He 
was a trifle incensed, and glanced with some severity at the pure pro- 
file beside him. 

In the meanwhile Phoebus Apollo and Phaeton had deserted 
their posts in the velvet pavilion, despite the warnings of the inex- 
orable priestess, and, slipping into a convenient dressing-room, di- 
vested themselves of their celestial habiliments. 

“ I tell you what, my boy, I'm going in for Forget-me-not,” re- 
marked Phoebus Apollo, otherwise Willy Monteith’s bosom friend, 
Mr. Sam Hardinge, assuming the costume of a Fool, with cap and 
bells. 

“ I must pay my addresses to the priestess still,” said Phaeton, is- 
suing forth from the hands of a valet as the Marquis de Lafayette, in 
velvet smallclothes, with lace ruffles and a powdered wig. 

He had sacrificed his mustache on the shrine of pleasure, not 
without a pang of regret, for he held much to the dignity of man- 
hood thus acquired. 

“It’s no use,” said Sam Hardinge, the scoffer. “You are too 
young and downy for Miss Belt even to flirt with.” 

Willy regained the ballroom as the opening quadrille terminated, 
and hastened to proffer his gold snuffbox to Mr. Diederich Knick- 
erbocker, who accepted a pinch with all possible gravity. 

“Miss Belt, you must give me the first waltz,” cried this auda- 
cious young marquis, seeking her in the crowd. 

“ Pardon. This is my waltz,” and the count stood on the other 
side in an attitude of entreat/. 

Camilla elevated her eyebrows. 

“ If I must choose between France and Italy, I prefer Italy,” she 


70 


TULIP PLACE. 


said. “I believe 1 bad already given the Count Della Stella my 
word.” 

“ When Miss Belt gives her word it is a sacred pledge,” added the 
count, with an emphasis and precision of utterance arguing a fre- 
quent repetition of the phrase. 

“ There is Mademoiselle Aimee, who is a much better waltzer than 
I,” said Camilla, as she was whirled away, with the arm of Christo- 
pher Columbus encircling her waist. 

The Marquis de Lafayette, thus foiled, observed Mademoiselle 
Aimee Rauvier for the first time, and was reconciled. Before he 
had made two turns of the room he decided that Aimee was the 
prettiest girl present, and was already more than half in love with her. 

Aimee represented her native Edelweiss, and Camilla had bestowed 
much attention on her costume. The narrow little gown of white 
velvet, with the overskirt of downy texture, in semblance of the 
pointed petals of a flower, was sufficiently brief to reveal two coquet- 
tish satin slippers, adorned with an edelweiss as a rosette. The 
graceful head rose from a quaint ruff of kindred points, and was 
surmounted by a helmet-shaped blossom, which rendered the wearer 
charming. 

Willy Monteith, who seemed boyish by reason of Camilla’s senior- 
ity of a year, felt awaken within him all the instincts of the preua j 
chevalier he represented, as he bore Aimee along on his arm, like a 
snowflake. 

“ Are you fond of dancing, mademoiselle?” he inquired, with quite 
unnecessary tenderness, bending over the flower-cap. 

“ Oh, ye§, monsieur,” replied Aimee, raising her sparkling eyes to 
his face with a dangerous instinct of maidenly coquetry. 

As for Camilla, she abandoned herself to the rhythmical move- 
ment of the music as the bather in tropical seas drifts, almost with- 
out volition, on the translucent waves, where sky and luminous at- 
mosphere are so infiltrated and fused as to seem part of the liquid 
element. She was alone with the Count Della Stella, the glow of 
myriads of lights dazzling her eyes, and the breath of dying roses all 
about her. Was she happy, or troubled? She could not determine. 
The present was her own. 

Her partner paused near the entrance to the conservatory. 

“ Allow me to get you an ice,” he urged. 

“No,” said Camilla. “I am hostess to-night. All these ladies 
wish to dance with Christopher Columbus. I must present you to 
Miss Pyle.” 

The count bowed low before the blende whose spray of roses had 
caught his cloak in the entrance. 

Miss Pyle smiled, bridled, and accepted his arm. Her dress made 


TULIP PLACE. 


71 


her resemble a China shepherdess, the slender bodice, full paniers, 
and pink satin skirt being wreathed in garlands of roses, while a 
string of rose-tinted pearls encircled her throat. 

Camilla regarded the ranks of dowagers a trifle defiantly. 
These were seated against the wall, where they formed a margin 
of poppies, with lace overdresses or marguerites in black and white 
draperies. The count had claimed her with unmistakable empresse- 
ment before all these people. She had not accorded him the right. 
She decided to avoid dancing with him any more this evening, as 
the ostrich hides its head in the sand. 

Mrs. Southby floated up to her with outstretched hands, in her 
dress of an Orchid, spangled with mauve and purple, flesh-color and 
crimson, and shot with yellow gleamings, as if still a plant to lead 
the votary to madness. Her corsage and sash formed a green calyx, 
whence depended eccentric trimmings, acquiring here the shape of a 
bird’s wing, and there the form of some insect. Opals shimmered 
amidst her laces. 

Mrs. Southby was a lady who enjoyed a reputation for being fast. 
Her interest in her nursery consisted in attiring her children like the 
royal babies of Spain, or the daughters of the Princess of Wales. 
Beautiful in early youth, she held tenaciously to a conspicuous 
position by frequently changing the color of her hair. As the 
Orchid her tresses possessed the metallic lustre of the bleached 
blonde. 

“Iam dying to know the count, Miss Belt, and have him to din- 
ner,” she exclaimed, with effusion. 

“Have you not met him yet? I will bring him to you after this 
dance,” rejoined Camilla. 

Mrs. Southby regarded her archly. 

“ How good of you to lure him over to us simple republicans, 
Miss Belt.” 

“ I did not lure him, ” said Camilla, curtly. ‘ * He came on his own 
account.” 

Here Mrs. Monteith slipped her hand through Camilla’s arm and 
whispered, 

“ I have a great favor to ask of you.” 

The Orchid fell back on the rank of dowagers, to which she 
dreaded being relegated, and drawled, sotto voce, 

“ She is certainly the bluntest creature.” 

“ She has no style,” echoed a Peony, speaking in discreetly low- 
ered accents. 

“ Style is unnecessary when a girl has ten millions in her own 
right,” sighed a Daffodil dame. 

“ I wish you to give my brother a waltz,” said Mrs. Monteith, 


72 


TULIP PLACE. 


confidentially. “I am most anxious about him. IJe cares so 
little for our world, and one dreads the snares of t^at other, you 
know. ” 

Camilla consulted her tablets, and consented. ' 

“Professor Ash well, I hope you have not forgotten our quadrille,” 
she said, playfully, as she approached a group of gentlemen. 

“Bless me! So this is the hostess?” said Diederich Knicker- 
bocker, in a falsetto key, assumed to disguise his natural voice. 
“You should give the precedence to natives, young lady; but if you 
will not be my partner, I must e’en be content to serve as your vis- 
a-vis. ’ ’ 

Suiting word to action, he led forth a buxom lady, simulating a 
corn-flower, and began to dance with admirable agility, now whisk- 
ing deftly to the right and left, and again executing complicated 
steps in his buckled shoes, to the diversion of the company. 

Why was Camilla so frank and gay in her bearing towards Pro- 
fessor Ash well? Why did she refrain from glancing at the Count 
Della Stella, as he led the Rose through the figures of the quadrille? 
Professor Ashwell was a genial guest, and it had not occurred to the 
daughter of the house to regard him in the light of a suitor. 

The Marquis de La Fayette had partaken of an ice, in company 
with the Edelweiss maiden, and was wandering through the fra- 
grant twilight of the conservatory. Willy had elicited the timid 
recital of Aimee’s life in the haute cite of Geneva, and, in turn, con- 
fided many interesting details of his own college career, including a 
boat-race with Yale. Willy was at home everywhere, and knew 
everybody. He was a favorite with the ladies at an age when he 
appeared more boy than man, but he discovered a novel charm in 
the voice, attitude, and manner of the French girl, which, by means 
of a nai've deference, and a subtile inference, rather than open flat- 
tery, made him satisfied with himself. The merriment of Sam 
Hardinge’s sisters degenerated into mere schoolroom chaff in com- 
parison with the discreet appreciation of Aimee Rauvier. 

As for the latter, a sweet tumult of agitation intoxicated her 
senses, lending softness to her smile. Phaeton, in all the glory of 
cerulean mantle, had deigned to notice her, when he descended 
from his high estate. She was elated, surprised, and very happy 

Willy pleaded for an edelweiss to keep as a souvenir of the dance, 
but Aimee was far too discreet to give him one. 

“ I’m going to show you my Alpine album some day, mademoiselle. 
I gathered every flower myself, from the Bernina to the St. Gotliard. 
You know the meaning of sharing an edelweiss?” 

“ Oh, yes, monsieur,” and Aimee averted her face. 

A voice intruded on these subdued questions and tremulous re- 


TULIP PLACE. 


73 


sponses, with a cold inflection of displeasure perceptible in the 
tones. 

“My dear child, I have been searching for you this half-hour,” 
said Mrs. Monteith. “ The Hardinges have arrived, a bevy of dan- 
delions gone to seed, and expect you to pay them some attention. 
They are too lovely in their balls of down/’ 

“Mademoiselle Rauvier is kindly improving my French accent,” 
said Willy, mischievously “I am sure she finds me perfectly 
beastly, as a linguist.” 

“Oh, no,” protested Aimee, laughing 

Mrs. Monteith did not smile. 

“Mrs. Belt requires your services, mademoiselle/’ she said, haugh- 
tily* 

The girl shrank and trembled. Her air-castle toppled down in 
the presence of Willy’s mother. She was not used to being regarded 
like that. She bowed, and slipped away to shed a few hot, incom- 
prehensible tears before rejoining the company. 

“How could you put her down like that, mamma?” exclaimed 
Willy, indignantly. 

“Do you mean the companion, darling?” demanded Mrs. Mon- 
teith, coolly. 

“I wish you would not treat me quite so much like a boy,” 
fumed the Marquis de La Fayette. 

Thus the moments wove links of association in Camilla’s ball- 
room, separating, by a breath, a glance, a note wafted from the 
musicians’ gallery, with equal caprice of fatality. 

“You will find me wretchedly out of practice, Miss Belt,” said 
William St. Nicholas, who had been dancing conscientiously all the 
evening, to the marked satisfaction of his sister. 

What was the danger threatening him ? Camilla pondered on 
Mrs. Monteith’s mysterious allusion, as she placed her hand on his 
shoulder. She met his glance full in her eyes. The look was one 
of mingled weariness and contempt. He colored, and bit his lip. 
He had not anticipated her reading his face quite so plainly, just 
then. 

“You are generous to try to amuse so many people, Miss Belt,” 
he said, abstractedly yet apologetically. “An artist should paint 
the scene.” 

Camilla drew herself up, and her nostrils quivered. 

“Confess that you dislike sunflowers, Mr. St. Nicholas,” she said, 
aware of the bristling spikes of her head-dress in close proximity to 
the chin of her partner 

“ On the contrary, I like sunflowers.” 

Camilla did not abandon herself to the rhythm of motion, as with 


74 


TULIP PLACE. 


the Count Della Stella,- she resisted the pressure of her partner’s 
arm, for sudden anger flamed in her veins, and caused her feet to 
drag. 

“I fancy we do not keep step together very well,” said William 
St. Nicholas, in a tone of dissatisfaction. 

“ I fancy not,” retorted Camilla, dryly. 

“You are tired, perhaps?” deprecatingly. 

“A little,” and she paused. 

“The Strauss measure had more elan than Lanner’s,” he added. 

“ I prefer Strauss,” said Camilla. 

What right had William St. Nicholas to look at her like that? 
The old conviction stole over her that the relative positions of the 
two families remained unchanged, in spite of Mrs. Monteith’s suave 
overtures. Her ball, with the flowers and lights, formed part of 
mere vulgar ostentation in his estimation. 

“ Miss Belt, at least allow me to take you in to supper.” he urged, 
with increased irritation of tone. ‘ ‘ I am a mighty trencherman, as 
the Commodore Yan Kortlandt, and have raised the oyster to the 
highest epicurean dignity, in competition with Philadelphia’s ter- 
rapin, Baltimore’s soft-shelled crab, and Washington’s canvas-back 
duck.” 

She bowed assent, and sought the supper-room. 

The Count Della Stella had paused near a buffet beside Willy 
Monteith and his friend Sam Hardinge. 

“Who is the young lady, the Rose?” he inquired. 

“Oil,” responded Sam Hardinge, who was discussing lobster- 
salad. 

“Oil?” repeated the foreigner. 

“He means her family came from oil,” kindly explained Willy 
Monteith, with the condescension of Young America, under such 
circumstances. 

“The grandfather struck oil in Pennsylvania,” added Sam Har- 
dinge. 

Count Della Stella smiled, and caressed his mustache. He was 
familiar with the term, as applied to suddenly acquired wealth, even 
at Rome. 

Oloffe the Dreamer exerted himself to amuse Camilla, and with- 
out success. Her politeness became more and more studied, and 
his jests forced. He was annoyed in his very instincts of courtesy. 
Conscious of disapproving of Camilla in her gaudy costume, he had 
not intended to betray the sentiment to the object of his thoughts. 
He made a final effort to thaw the ice of constrained intercourse. 

“ I like to believe we were destined to become friends, as we were 
born on the same day,” he said, gravely. 


TULIP PLACE. 


75 


Here was a fitting occasion for a sweet-tempered woman to melt 
into smiles of ready forgiveness. Camilla did nothing of the kind. 
William St. Nicholas had proved a bramble in her path this even- 
ing. He had done his best to put her out of conceit even with her 
own toilet ; an unpardonable offence on the part of a man. 

“ By all means, let us be friends. I am ready for the cotillion, 
count. You will join us, I trust, Mr. St. Nicholas,” with studied 
indifference. 

The cotillion commenced at two o’clock, led by the Count Della 
Stella and Willy Monteith. Diederich Knickerbocker looked on 
with bright, amused eyes. Mrs. Monteith sat beside Professor Ash- 
well on a velvet sofa. 

Camilla noticed that the Commodore Van Kortlandt was not 
among the dancers; was, indeed, in the act of bidding Mrs. Belt 
good night. What did it matter? Let him go. 

The ladies agreed there never was such a leader as the count, 
endowed with so much spirit, invention, and inexhaustible amia- 
bility. His very look lent wings to their feet, as he grouped them 
together as flowers, converted the gentlemen into wild animals, by 
means of masks, and showered gifts upon his panting subjects. 
Through it all, the merry hours given variety by his skill, he kept 
* the thread of a separate interest with Camilla, until such time as 
the dancers drooped, and day dawned, with the final supplication : 

“ Will you give me an answer in a month? It is a paradise, your 
country, but I cannot linger here too long. I am a soldier.” 

“ Very well. In a month,” replied Camilla. 

The music hummed in her ears, the soft draperies of the other 
dancers swept about her. Many things may happen in a month. 

He seemed to divine the evasion of her thought. His face dark- 
ened, and his eyes glowed with a sombre fire. 

‘ ‘ Afterward !” he murmured low. ‘ ‘ Ah, afterward Ido not care !” 

Mrs. Southby said to a neighbor: 

“What a flirt Alice St. Nicholas is! She always was, you know. 
Oh, yes, a thorough-paced coquette, if one ever lived. Only look 
at her now, indulging in a scientific conversation with Professor Ash- 
well ! She is persuading the hapless man of her profound interest 
in the molar tooth of the Mastodon Avernensis.” 

The Rose from the oil country, Miss Pyle, had for a partner a Turk, 
in the person of a young man with a serious countenance, who gave 
his whole mind to the business in hand, following steadily the brill- 
iant and erratic lead of Count Della Stella. Miss Pyle was listless, 
and her glance constantly sought Camilla or Christopher Columbus, 
as if she were absorbed in some perplexing meditation. 

In the dawn the Turk took his way homeward in the direction of 


76 


TULIP PLACE. 


the neighboring city of Brooklyn, weary, yet elated at having at- 
tended Miss Belt’s flower ball. “X must tell the girls all about it,” 
he soliloquized, with masculine superiority to the sisters who had 
not been invited. 

In the dawn Donald Belt surveyed the dishevelled flower-garlands, 
the waning tapers, the debris of the feast, with satisfaction. 

“Diederich Knickerbocker was old Mr. St. Nicholas,” he said, 
winking slyly at the flower-mirrors. “First a dinner-party, and 
then a ball. I thought we should land that trout, sooner or later.” 

In the dawn Camilla fell asleep, without the aid of the poison- 
draught necessary to fashion’s jaded nerves. She seemed to step 
from the light of her own ballroom into outer darkness, drawn 
onward against her will, until in denser shadow, whether of looming 
rock or lofty dome of some vast cathedral she could not discern, 
she was clasped to a man’s breast, and a face bent to seek her own. 
Then a voice proclaimed, where all else was vague, tremulous, 
changeful : 

“ Under the standard of Spain 1” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE NOTE OF AN OLD VIOLIN. 

“ When the low music makes a dusk of sound 
About us, and the viol or far-off horn 
Swells out above it like a wind forlorn 
That wanders, seeking something never found, 

What phantom in your brain, on what dim ground. 

Traces its shadowy lines /” — Sii.l,. 

When William St. Nicholas appeared at the luncheon - table 
next day — a meal serving as breakfast for three members of the 
family on this occasion — it was apparent to all that he was out of 
sorts. 

Rallied by his sister on his bad-humor, he retorted that a ball, 
where one poisons one’s self with supper, is sufficient excuse for a 
headache. 

‘ ‘ I escaped before any lady could request me to receive her gifts, 
and stand nailed against the wall until daybreak,” he added. 

“Providence intended our Willy for the leader of an orchestra,” 
said Mrs. Monteith, reverting to her favorite sarcasm. 

“I never saw a more jolly ball,” cried Willy, the younger, 
blithely. 

His mother eyed him askance. 

“Grandmamma should have seen you in the character of Phae- 
ton,” she said. “As the Marquis de La Fayette you were simply 
a silly fop.” 

“When? In what way?” exclaimed the youth, betrayed into 
indignation, and then repenting of his warmth with a sudden flush 
of consciousness. 

“Mammon certainly outdid himself,” remarked Mr. St. Nicholas, 
in his driest tone. “What a display of luxury that house is! I 
suppose his pictures were selected for him by a connoisseur, as he 
can know little about them. For my part, a few American artists, 
and our family portraits by Sir Peter Lely and Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
with a few proof engravings, have always sufficed for my modest 
requirements.” 

“So you were present, grandpapa,” hinted Willy Monteith, slyly. 
“ I thought Mr. Diederich Knickerbocker resembled you.” 


78 


TULIP PLACE. 


‘‘Hush, you young rascal!” retorted Mr. St. Nicholas, in an under- 
tone. 

“I am aware your grandpapa attended the ball last night,” said 
Mrs. St. Nicholas, calmly. “ He did not consult me, but I suppose 
he is old enough to know his own mind.” 

The birdlike features of the mistress of the house acquired addi- 
tional sharpness, while the smile on her thin and withered lips 
revealed the patience and discretion acquired by experience. From 
her standpoint of judgment the old husband seated opposite may 
have been but a poor creature, after all, with many paltry masculine 
foibles and inconsistencies. His outward aspect fulfilled all the 
requirements of the book of Ecclesiasticus : “As the clear light is 
upon the holy candlestick, so is the beauty of the face in ripe age.” 
In the soul of the wife, mingling with the regret and resignation 
of maturity, was a profound, underlying scepticism, not devoid of 
personal resentment, although she would not have characterized 
the sentiment by that name. She did not believe in his fondness 
for Horace or Virgil. She discerned in his cultivation of the tulip 
a certain vanity, desirous of aping Lipsius or John Barclay, as a 
learned man refreshing himself after study by contemplation of 
the gorgeous flower, and an effort to perpetuate the extravagance of 
the Dutch and Viennese merchants in first bringing the costly bulb 
from Adrianople and the plains of Jaffa. 

Mrs. St. Nicholas occupied her own rooms in the old mansion on 
Tulip Place, while Mr. St. Nicholas enjoyed his wing of the house 
undisturbed, spending much of the night in reading, as a light 
sleeper, when not out late at his club. In her day she had recog- 
nized she had a place to fill, and if she received, with all possible 
formality, certain coquettish widows and gay belles of a season, 
her own face darker and harsher from contrast with their fair and 
dimpled loveliness, no complaint had escaped her lips. The whim 
of last evening, harmless and natural as it had been, was not the 
first of a similar kind. Possibly the recollection of those other 
balls, and the pangs of doubt she had suffered when her own heart 
was young, and capable of keen pain, brought that enigmatical 
smile to her lips, and a sudden gleam of light to her faded eyes. 

The old lady kept in a jewel-case a collection of ornaments, 
which she would not permit to be separated during her lifetime. 
When her daughter married, she showed these gems to the giddy 
and romantic girl. “These are presents from your father,” she 
explained. “I call them conscience-money. I never wear them, 
but they have been given to me at periods of excessive amiability 
on his part. Live on good terms with your husband, my dear. In 
toyr world scandal should be avoided.” 


TULIP PLACE. 


79 


The head of the house respected his wife, and was aware that her 
line of conduct was to be relied upon, in advance, in any emergency 
of duty which was likely to befall her. At the same time he per- 
mitted himself an indulgence of self-complacency to the extent of 
believing he humored her prejudices as few men would do, and 
served as a model of forbearance, on many occasions. Their union 
had been one of family interests; hence their mutual reluctance to 
influence the choice of the son. 

“Your mother disapproves of us for countenancing the sewing- 
machine man,” he said, laughing. “The ball was immensely fine, 
and when I saw the carriages arriving, I remembered that costume 
of Diederich Knickerbocker. I have not worn the clothes for ten 
years, and my figure has not altered in the least.” 

He spoke with the satisfaction of well-preserved maturity. 

“I should prefer not to encourage these people by visiting them,” 
replied Mrs. St. Nicholas. “I wish Alice was a little more particu- 
lar about her associates. 

“Every one was there, mamma,” protested Mrs. Monteith, cheer- 
fully. “ The Belts have the celebrated English savant, Professor 
Ash well, visiting them, so why should not we? We must have him 
here to meet some really good people, and we ladies should get up a 
series of drawing-room lectures, just to convince him that American 
women are not so fearfully frivolous as they imagine outre-mer .” 

“Are you desirous of persuading him of your superior intellect?” 
queried William St. Nicholas. 

“Of course,” asseverated Mrs. Monteith, her voice rising in a 
little inflection of enthusiasm. “I am confident he believes that 
we belong to the decent middle classes of retired tradespeo- 
ple.” 

“What difference does it make what he believes?” said William 
St. Nicholas, whose mood was perverse. “He may consider me a 
wild Indian, if he likes, and go home and write a book all about 
us, with the pleasing title of ‘Five Minutes in New York Society,’ 
or, ‘A Fresh Glimpse of American Institutions,’ or, ‘A Scamper 
Across the Rocky Mountains.’” 

“Is he really like common mortals, do you suppose?” said Willy, 
the younger. “Perhaps he answers the cook, when she asks at 
what hour the dinner shall be served, like the astronomer, immersed 
in speculation on the return of a comet— the twenty-seventh of Sep- 
tember, 1915.” 

“I can see William did not enjoy the ball,” said Mrs. St. Nicho- 
las, with marked elation. 

“No; I should think not,” he assented, briefly. 

“Why?” inquired Mrs. Monteith, innocently. 


80 


TULIP PL A CE. 


The brother, avoiding her eye, peeled an orange, and proffered the 
fruit to his mother. 

“I suppose he found the people too vulgar. Your brother has 
always been accustomed to good associations,” said Mrs. St. Nicho- 
las. 

“I did not find the people at all vulgar,” he replied, preparing a 
second orange with deliberation. “ I confess that I was bored.” 

“The girl appeared very well, I must say,” remarked Mr. St. 
Nicholas. 

“I do not admire her taste in dress,” said William. 

‘ ‘ True. I did not care for that sunflower business, ” supplemented 
the parent. “The mother was perfection.” 

“I am told her father was the village shoemaker in her native 
place,” added Mrs. St. Nicholas, briskly, who acquired a surprising 
amount of gossip at all times. 

“ From cobbler’s bench to palace is an easy transition in our coun- 
try, in this day,” said Mr. St. Nicholas, shaking his head. 

“I always enjoy masculine criticisms on the toilette,” said Mrs. 
Monteith. “You make yourselves so deliciously absurd when you 
try to be wise about a woman’s raiment. The embroidered border 
of helianthus on Camilla Belt’s robe was a triumph of skill.” 

“ So was the soldi in her hair, I suppose, only there was a good 
deal of it,” said William St. Nicholas, with a somewhat forced 
laugh. 

“ Camilla Belt evidently offended you last night,” said Mrs. Mon- 
teith, in a tone of quiet conviction. 

“ Offended me? What a preposterous idea, my dear Alice! She 
was a very civil hostess. The poor girl could not be expected to 
galvanize her sober countrymen to skip about like that foreign fel- 
low.” 

“ Foreign fellow?” repeated Mrs. St. Nicholas. “ Why, who was 
he?” 

“Uncle Willy means an Italian count, grandmamma,” explained 
Willy, the younger. “ All the ladies are wild about him, already. I 
don’t see that the figures he introduced into the cotillion were so 
much better than Sam’s, but, of course, they were imported, and 
that makes all the difference. ” 

“ I should suppose Sam’s figures might be good enough for the 
Belts,” observed Mrs. St. Nicholas, sententiously. “How well I 
remember Sam’s great-aunt at the ball where she met Lord de 
Clyffe. She wore a slip of India mull over blue taffetas, and her 
arms were perfect.” 

“A foreign fellow, meaning the Count Azzolino Della Stella, 
beautiful as the Apollo Belvedere,” exclaimed Mrs. Monteith. Then 


TULIP PLACE. 


81 


changing her tone, she added: “ If Camilla Belt did not offend you, 
come to the reception at the Meerschaum Club this evening. ” 

The family had risen from the table. William St. Nicholas looked 
out of the window. 

“You must excuse me,” he retorted. “Take your own son, 
madame, and improve his mind. To mingle with my peers 
again to-night would be piling the last straw on the camel’s 
burden.” 

“All right!” assented Willy, the younger. “Are we going with 
the Belts?” 

“ No, my dear,” said his mother, with a cold gleam of suspicion 
in her eyes. “ The seance would not interest you.” 

Willy made a mutinous grimace. 

“The waves of fresh influence that sweep over the feminine intel- 
ligence are marvellous,” said the uncle, meditatively. “Your last 
craze was for hospital-nursing and prison visiting. You held your 
own theories respecting capital punishment, if I am not mistaken. 
Before that you wished to walk a hundred miles or so a day, by 
way of gentle exercise. I think I remember a date when you seri- 
ously meditated carving your own furniture, Mrs. Monteith, and 
hammering brass- work, as a pastime. Now we are to hear of noth- 
ing save Paleontology. I presume the dodo will soon decorate the 
drawing-room, and you women will trim your bonnets with fossil 
bones, as a delicate compliment to Professor Ashwell.” 

“Don’t!” protested Mrs. Monteith. “ When you try to be witty 
you are too dreadful.” 

Half an hour later William St. Nicholas looked in on his mother. 
He wore a heavy coat, and was drawing a pair of fur-lined gloves 
over his hands and wrists. 

Mrs. St. Nicholas was already ensconsed in her favorite arm-chair 
in the bow-window of her morning-room, a post of observation 
overlooking the street, and she held the latest newspaper outspread 
on her knee. 

A few books comprised her library — a Bible, a Prayer-book, 
Thomas a Kempis, “Voices of Comfort,” and a volume of Lenten 
sermons. Apart from these safe guides the daily journal furnished 
ample mental pabulum. Mrs. St. Nicholas was, by instinct, a skil- 
ful and ardent reader of the news. Her experienced glance swept 
the field, and divined where the choicest tidbits of items were to be 
found. The calendar of any current week was enlivened by the 
promised advent of an interesting sheet, fresh from the press. The 
most acceptable gift possible to bestow upon her was a periodical, 
while her keen scent for news would have enabled her to extract 
the kernel of fact in telegram or leader, guided by the intuition of 

6 


82 


TULIP PLACE. 


genius. Her usual formula after a surfeit of general information 
was : “ I don’t know what the world is coming to !” 

Her son invariably paid her the tribute of respect of taking leave 
of her before going out. The gentlemen St. Nicholas deemed men 
of leisure actually had many engagements to keep. 

“I must look up my old violin,” he explained. “ I believe it is a 
good instrument, and as poor Muller left it to me, with his blessing, 
I intend to give it a place of honor. I do not imagine the violin is 
finer than that of the gypsy king, Racz Pali, still I am having it put 
in order. Who knows?” 

The day was cold and the thermometer had verged on zero at sun- 
rise. The freezing of water-pipes had resulted, and although the 
temperature was now milder, a clouded sky threatening snow, the 
streets and avenues had a sombre aspect. 

William St. Nicholas did not glance at the opposite house as he 
walked briskly in the direction of the neighboring square. He was 
still strangely annoyed when he recalled the events of the previous 
evening, and the dance with Camilla Belt. Why had he looked at 
her scornfully? How quick she had been to read his thought! 

The square was bleak and gray, the withered grass visible, here 
and there, through the snow, the paths as iron to the foot, while the 
leafless trees swayed their dry branches in the wind. The fountain 
in the centre was a solid mass of ice, dull in hue, for the hooded sun 
robbed the crystal surface of prismatic coloring. The children had 
deserted the spot, and a few dejected pedestrians cowered on the 
benches, homeless outcasts, or weary laborers pausing to rest before 
resuming the burden of toil. 

A group pausing near the fountain attracted the quick eye of 
William St. Nicholas. A youth of nineteen years, with a shock of 
red hair and a good-natured face, who resembled Mr. Dion Bourci- 
cault in the role of the Shaugran, stood there, with three children 
huddled close at his side. Evidently strangers, they gazed about 
them, too bewildered to whimper at mere discomfort, and too much 
frightened to hazard a comment on their novel surroundings. 

The youth held a bit of paper in his hand, and, as Mr. St. Nicho- 
las approached, he proffered it for the latter’s inspection. 

“Mebbe yer honor could tell me where this place is,” he hinted, 
and four pairs of eyes became fixed in desperate interrogation on the 
new-comer’s face. 

The gentleman read the name of Mrs. Maggy Donohue, and a 
number and street on the extreme limits of Harlem. He paused and 
questioned the shock-headed youth, whose name proved to be Mike 
Mahoney, and the particulars of whose story were soon elicited. 
The party had landed from an emigrant ship that morning, and at 


TULIP PLACE. 


83 


Castle Garden it had fallen to the lot of young Mike, chiefly because 
of his good-nature, as well as for the reason that he came from Coun- 
ty Cork also, to find the mother of the young brood under his 
charge. The grandfather had recently died in the old country, and 
the surviving relatives deemed it advisable to despatch the children 
to America, in pursuit of their parents. The fragment of paper, 
with the address written in pencil, by the parish priest, was the sole 
clew whereby a dismembered family might become reunited in the 
wilderness of a foreign land; for the movements of Mr. Patrick Don- 
ohue were uncertain, while Mrs. Donohue lived out at service. No 
time had been wasted in idle correspondence by the practical kins- 
folk. 

Mr. St. Nicholas directed the waifs to a neighboring avenue, where, 
by taking a car, their destination might be reached. 

“Is it a good bit further, sir?” inquired Mike, more dazed than 
enlightened by the information received. “ Sliure, it’s dead bate the 
childer are, intirely.” 

“Yes; it is a good bit away,” admitted Mr. St. Nicholas. He re- 
sumed his walk, smoothing his beard with his hand; a habit with 
him in moments of perplexity. ‘ ‘ Poor devil ! He will probably 
take the wrong car and go down town,” he soliloquized, and paused. 

The group had not quitted the vicinity of the fountain. A harder 
heart might have been touched by their pathetic aspect. 

William St. Nicholas retraced his steps. 

“ Come,” he said, encouragingly. “ I will show you the way.” 

They followed him with the blind confidence of the emigrant, 
which should serve as his safeguard against harm, even in the haunts 
of great towns. 

The car was passing. He hailed the conveyance, hurried his com- 
panions on board, and, with another dubious glance at them, stepped 
on the platform, selecting such coin as should pay their fare from 
his own purse. Mike grinned, the children stared, hugging their 
thin garments more closely about them. Accepting this gracious 
interposition of Providence, they accommodated themselves in a cor- 
ner of the vehicle, grateful for the warmth and shelter thus afforded 
them, and burying their benumbed feet in the fresh straw of the 
floor. 

The track was slippery, the horses weary, the way long in a tedi- 
ous form of transition, but William St. Nicholas was, at length, de- 
posited with his charge on a wind-swept corner, where blocks of 
new buildings still flanked vacant lots, 

“Now for number Seventy-two,” he said, again referring to the 
paper. 

Number Seventy-two was unoccupied, and a bill attached to the 


84 


TULIP PLACE. 


iron railing of the balcony announced that the property would be 
rented, or sold on highly advantageous terms, by applying to an 
agent in Wall Street. 

' Mr. St. Nicholas rang the bell of the house on the right, and de- 
manded information of a smiling negress concerning the late tenants 
of number Seventy-two, or Mrs. Maggy Donohue. The negress dis- 
claimed all knowledge of either; the house having been closed while 
she had lived in the locality. 

He next essayed the mansion on the left with no better success. 
A sulky maid, with untidy hair, affirmed she had never heard of 
Mrs. Donohue, and was sure the cook at number Seventy-two had 
rejoiced in the name of Bridget Sullivan. 

The good Samaritan then crossed the street, and rang at the oppo- 
site house, a summons which brought a woman of suspicious tem- 
perament, wearing a woollen hood, out of the area door; with a 
pouncing swiftness she surveyed the group severely, coughed, and 
wished to know if her interlocutor meant before or after the death 
of the old gentleman. Mr. St. Nicholas, unacquainted with the old 
gentleman in question, expressed a wish to find the mother of these 
children. 

The wearer of the hood retorted, snappishly. 

‘ ‘ I can’t be expected to know all the servants of the neighbor- 
hood. I do my own work.” 

Thus foiled, Mr. St. Nicholas looked about him in some perplexity. 
What would become of the shivering little mortals cast upon his 
care? He could not take them home with him to Tulip Place, and 
he was reluctant to consign them to the station-house for the night. 
In his own mind he feared Mr. and Mrs. Donohue were myths, long 
since vanished from the ken of Harlem. 

At the date of which we write the elevated railway was not con- 
structed, but none the less the friendly pump of more primitive 
days had vanished, to be replaced by hydrant and reservoir. The 
pump would have served as a local club, where, with the replenish- 
ment of household pitcher and bucket, some interesting items of the 
career of Mrs. Donohue could scarcely fail to be gleaned. 

Mike removed one hand from his pocket and warmed the purple 
fingers by blowing on them. The teeth of the boys chattered, while 
the little girl applied a corner of her faded shawl to her eyes, with a 
timid and furtive gesture of discouragement. 

“Tut! We will find your mammy before you can say Jack Robin- 
son,” exclaimed William St. Nicholas, giving the child a reassuring 
pat on the shoulder. 

Failing the pump of earlier times, there still remained the corner 
grocery. Hither he bent his steps, followed by his companions. 


TULIP PLACE . 


85 


The grocer, a cheerful and florid person, in the act of scooping 
moist brown sugar from a barrel for a blooming damsel, did not 
belie his reputation of being au courant with the elements of his 
sphere. The grocer recalled Mrs. Maggy Donohue, although she 
had been gone from Harlem for the better part of a year. He be- 
lieved she went to Hoboken or to Staten Island. 

“Mrs. Maggy Donohue; present abode Hoboken or Staten Isl- 
and. Humph! A lively lookout for all concerned,” mused Mr. 
St. Nicholas. 

Here the blooming damsel, receiving the parcel of sugar in her 
basket, came unexpectedly to the rescue. The light in her bright 
blue eye seemed to warm poor frozen Mike as much as the words 
that fell from her rosy lips, like the pearls of the fairy tale, and ut- 
tered with the richest imaginable brogue. Mrs. Donohue was out 
at service at number Twenty-seven Elderberry Street, Brooklyn. 

“You are sure?” inquired Mr. St. Nicholas, scanning her features 
keenly. 

The blooming damsel bridled slightly, and stated she had been to 
visit the object of inquiry the previous Sunday after mass. Some 
further conversation, which acted on Mike with the talismanic charm 
of freemasonry, resulted in a broad grin of restored confidence. 

“We’ll find her this time, yer honor,” he asserted. 

William St. Nicholas again inspected the forlorn rank of young- 
sters. 

“I do believe we are hungry,” he said, and sought a bakery, 
where the little Donohues and their guardian confirmed the sus- 
picion by devouring as many buns and gingernuts as were given 
them. 

William St. Nicholas consulted his watch. It was half-past four 
o’clock, and the winter twilight would soon gather in. How would 
these waifs ever find number Twenty-seven Elderberry Street, Brook- 
lyn? No very active play of imagination was requisite to picture 
them cruising about on the dark waters from one ferry to another, 
or dropping exhausted by the wayside, the one slender thread of 
communication with the mother broken, perhaps, forever. 

“ Come,” he said, briefly, and once more stowed them in a pass- 
ing car. 

When the family in Tulip Place met at dinner the son was not of 
the number. It was not unusual for him to dine out, but he in- 
formed his mother when such was his intention. 

“ I do hope nothing has happened to him,” said Mrs. St. Nicholas, 
in tremulous remembrance of the disappearance of the young master 
of number Fourteen. 

“Nonsense! He is old enough to take care of himself,” rejoined 


8G 


TULIP PLACE. 


Mr. St. Nicholas, who was in evening dress, and wore a white neck- 
tie. “ I dare say our Willy here would not care to be too closely at- 
tached to his mother’s apron-strings, eh?” 

“No, sir,” said Willy, with marked emphasis. “It is a good 
plan to carry a pistol, or a sword-cane, though Sam knows a fellow 
who went to a masquerade ball and took too much champagne at 
supper. When he came out he walked across town, instead of up 
the avenue, you know. Found himself next morning in a lumber 
yard beside the river, with his pockets turned inside out, and even 
his shirt-studs missing. He might have been murdered if he had 
made any resistance to the river thieves.” 

“Now there is a warning for you, Willy,” quavered grandmamma. 

“It is best not to take too much champagne at supper,” supple- 
mented grandpapa, sententiously. 

Willy’s features acquired an expression of constraint. As a school- 
boy, reared amidst the pitfalls of city life, he had enjoyed “his 
fling,” chalking the backs of pedestrians, playing tricks on his pre- 
ceptors, and defying justice, at times. He had once ridden his pony 
through the show-window of a jewelry establishment. At another 
date he had been found, by his uncle, in admiring contemplation of 
a minstrel troupe, which he intended to join, and had been restored 
to his unsuspicious mother with some evasive excuses concerning a 
fire up-town. 

As a collegian, a natural aptitude for cards, amateur theatricals, 
and flirtation led his masculine relatives to exercise an espionage 
which was too benevolent to arouse his resentment. 

“I wish William would come home,” said Mrs. Monteith. “It 
does not look well for him to slight Professor Ashwell after having 
met him. We might coax him to yield, even at the eleventh hour.” 

Mrs. Monteith was fresh and brilliant, despite having gone to bed 
with the dawn. Her train of black velvet was relieved by draperies 
of white crGpe, brocaded with flowers. The tight velvet sleeve was 
bordered with a puff of white crGpe, and a soft sash encircled her 
waist. Ornaments of jet and diamonds sparkled in her ears, and at 
her throat. 

The lady professed scorn for the paltry details of the toilette, and 
confessed only to a fondness for rare lace. Her judgment in Vene- 
tian rose point, the misty Malines, and delicate Valenciennes was 
unerring, while she avoided a standard of estimating other women 
by their attire, which is too often the sole American feminine crite- 
rion of similar criticism. 

A shabby visitor had twice called during the afternoon, demand- 
ing to be received by William St. Nicholas. He was a bearded man, 
evidently a foreigner, and experienced difficulty in expressing his 


TULIP PLACE. 


87 


wishes. He was in a state of great excitement. He had waited 
half an hour, and finally departed sorrowfully, leaving a package for 
the absent one. 

At the hour when his relatives were thus discussing his movements 
William St. Nicholas was presiding, as host, at a small table, in a 
steaming basement restaurant, located near the Fulton Ferry. He 
watched the children partake of bowls of oyster soup, and was re- 
lieved to see the color return to their pinched faces, after the long 
confinement to the crowded car. 

“Now let us try the ferry-boat,” he said, when the repast was 
concluded. 

There could be no doubt that, left to themselves, the emigrants 
would have lingered in the Sybaritic atmosphere of the heated ferry- 
boat. When the other shore was gained, Mike was nodding drowsi- 
ly, and the children fast asleep. Mr. St. Nicholas had some difficul- 
ty in arousing and forcing them to resume their weary march. They 
slipped and stumbled on the icy pavement, the little girl lagged be- 
hind, weeping unrestrainedly, one of the boys seated himself on the 
curbstone, announcing his firm determination to go no farther ; even 
Mike grew surly and querulous in his remarks. 

“ Thank Heaven! The place is near by. I should have to hire a 
coach-and-six to restore the Donohues to the maternal bosom if the 
woman lived out by Prospect Park,” reflected the commander of this 
forlorn band of discovery. 

Elderberry Street proved a modest locality, situated near the fine 
quarter of the Heights, yet retaining the characteristics of earlier 
days. Wooden houses, with porches and balconies, painted white, 
yellow, and brown, suggested the summer evenings of long ago, when 
the inhabitants sat on the door-steps, and gossiped with their neigh- 
bors. A brick Baptist church occupied one corner, and a Quaker 
meeting-house stood opposite, thus dividing the religious privileges 
of the quarter. Willow trees, in their season, spread green tendrils 
over the meeting-house porch. 

Modern luxury intruded in the gabled stable and coach-house, in 
the rear of a sumptuous mansion on the next street, with an adjacent 
grass-patch, remnant of former meadows, where a Derby cow took 
exercise. 

Number Twenty-seven twinkled with cheerful light, through half- 
closed curtains. An agreeable odor, for a frosty night, of roasted 
meat and gravy became perceptible when a little girl opened the 
door. 

“It’s some people for Maggy, ma,” she explained, running back to 
the threshold of a room from whence issued the sound of voices, 
mingled with a clatter of crockery. 


88 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ Call her, then, only don’t let her burn the mashed potatoes,” was 
the response. 

William St. Nicholas smiled. The comfortable interior pleased 
him none the less that he was playing the part of a Caliph of 
Bagdad. 

“Oh, Fred! How was Miss Belt dressed?” exclaimed a girl’s 
voice. 

“ I’ve told you a dozen times, already,” retorted the invisible Fred. 
“She was a sunflower. There was an heiress from the oil regions 
dressed like a rose. I danced the German with her.” 

“ How lovely! Was her skirt velvet, or satin, did you say, Fred?” 
chimed in a second girl. 

“ I didn’t say, because I don’t remember. You are enough to drive 
a man crazy. I saw that tremendous swell, the younger St. Nicho- 
las. He was the Commodore Van Kortlandt.” 

A buxom woman bustled up the steep flight of stairs from the 
kitchen, carrying two covered dishes in her hands. She approached 
the open door. 

“Are you Mrs. Maggy Donohue?” inquired William St. Nicholas. 

“I am, thin,” rejoined the unsuspicious creature, promptly. 

“Your children have been sent over from Ireland — ” 

The sentence remained unfinished. Mrs. Donohue uttered a pro- 
longed shriek, dropped the dishes on the floor, and ejaculated, 

“ Howly mother, and all the saints!” 

Questions, wild laughter, tears, and embraces ensued. William 
St. Nicholas withdrew. He glanced back from the pavement. 
The family had emerged from the dining-room, and the mistress of 
the house demanded an explanation of this extraordinary scene of 
noise and confusion. Mrs. Donohue’s reply was delivered in a 
high key, and with amazing volubility. She must take the children 
to Mrs. Murphy’s at once. Mike could come, too, and welcome. 
How could their father look after them when he was shovelling coal 
at a gas-works, where the hands had struck, and threatened to “blow 
the head off him ” if he emerged. 

Seated on board the ferryboat once more, William St. Nicholas 
communed with his own spirit. 

“ A wise man has said that the good are not happy, and the happy 
are not good. I have destroyed the peace and the digestion of an 
innocent family, and they will have no mashed potatoes for this 
evening, at least. How small the world is! The son evidently at- 
tended Camilla’s ball.” 

He pronounced the name aloud, unconsciously, then relapsed into 
silence. 

The waves beat against the boat, blocks of drifting ice jarred the 


TULIP PLACE. 


89 


machinery ; the two cities rose on the opposite shores, with the red 
glare of opaque vapor in the sky above which makes the atmosphere 
of night over a town. Two piers rose, vague in the darkness, to be 
linked together, later, by a cobweb of wire, into a suspension bridge. 
Some influence, derived from these elements, reached the silent man 
to whom life appeared, as to Omar Khayam, a terrible enigma, and 
yet the passing shadow on the wall. 

Mrs. Monteith was drawing on her long white gloves, and the car- 
riage was at the door, when the delinquent brother appeared. 

“ Do follow us to the club, Willy,” she urged. 

“Thank you. I have been entertaining foreigners, myself, to- 
day,” and this was the sole explanation he ever made. 

The package attracted his attention. He unfastened the wrap- 
pings, and drew forth the old violin. A strip of paper fluttered out, 
on which was written, in German, 

“ The violin is an original. Look at the label. I found it in tak- 
ing the instrument apart.” 

William St. Nicholas read the slip, and uttered a subdued whistle. 

“Amati. Cremona. 1670. The old musician cannot have sus- 
pected its true value. Now I must devote myself seriously to the 
violin, like the student who practised twelve hours a day, for fifteen 
years, after he was supposed to have attained perfect proficiency.” 

The Meerschaum Club was situated on a central thoroughfare. 
Donald Belt was one of the founders, and the members were esteemed 
essentially new men. When the daily press was at a loss for other 
material the amount of capital represented by the Meerschaum Club 
furnished a topic of respectful and speculative interest. In matters 
political the bias of this body of brokers, bankers, and railroad mag- 
nates was eagerly awaited and discussed. In matters social their 
hospitality was prized by the ladies, for the Meerschaum Club had not 
only erected a bijou theatre for amateur acting, with reference to the 
display of magnificent toilets, but received all distinguished foreign- 
ers, as well. The ladies invariably flocked to such entertainments, 
whether to be presented to a noted African explorer, a classical poet, 
exiled patriot, artist, or actor. There was an element of fascination 
that never palled in thus invading the haunts of man, and confront- 
ing, even probing, the secret recesses, as it were, dedicated to that 
powerful rival of female charms, tobacco. 

On this night the club presented an appearance of decorous ele- 
gance. Billiards, cards, cigars, and journals had been banished, for 
the moment, in favor of flowers, and a fountain spouting perfumed 
waters. 

A welcome to Professor Vincent Ashwell had elicited from that 
gentleman a promise to address the company gathered to do him 


90 


TULIP PLACE. 


honor. Certain citizens of influence were seated in a semicircle oil 
the tiny stage of the theatre, and when Mr. St. Nicholas arrived, Don- 
ald Belt requested him to present the stranger to the audience. Mr. 
St. Nicholas acquitted himself of the duty in a few neatly turned 
phrases of introduction. 

Professor Ashwell then spoke, amidst the profound silence of cu- 
riosity and eager attention, his bearing easy and self-possessed, his 
thought direct and simple, his voice fuller and richer, in a rapid yet 
distinct utterance, than his physique might have warranted, his 
suavity of national compliment a trifle studied. 

He thanked his hearers for the kindness with which he was every- 
where received, and expressed his surprise at the warmth of the greet- 
ing accorded him. The dream of many years was at length fulfilled 
in visiting America, and he wished to travel thousands of miles before 
he deemed himself fitted to appreciate so vast and noble a country. 
He was already familiar with the poems of Longfellow, Whittier, 
and Lowell. He hoped some day to be able to say he had shaken 
hands with Doctor Holmes. He was prouder of possessing the au- 
tograph signature of Emerson than he should be of that of any 
crowned head. He had been asked if he intended to write a book 
about America, on his return to the old home, and, although he felt 
himself in no way qualified for the task, he should be inclined to en- 
title such a work, “At Last,” in imitation of the late Canon Kingsley, 
when permitted to behold the West India Islands. The scenery, 
and the architecture of such cities as he had seen, delighted him. 

Professor Ashwell appeared as a man of society, and made no allu- 
sion to his favorite studies. His debut was felicitous. Deprived 
of similar advantages of respectful consideration, in introduction, 
greater men have spoken and acted before empty houses. From 
the outset the ladies, led by Mrs. Monteith, were with the affable 
paleontologist; craving, as they do, the sauce - jpiquante of some 
fresh emotion. Professor Ashwell was pronounced, by these fair 
critics, as too sweet for anything, with the most delicious English 
accent. 

Colonel King met Captain Rawdon in the vestibule, and the two 
exchanged a nonchalant greeting, as men easily aroused to hostility, 
yet keeping on terms of civility, as liable to meet in any quarter of 
the globe. 

“Good-evening, captain,” said the son of Mars, large, corpulent, 
and a little stiff in gait. 

“Good-evening, colonel,” responded the son of Neptune, small, 
dark, and wiry in form. 

“Were you at the Belts’ ball? I was ordered to Washington,” 
continued the colonel, jauntily. 


TULIP PLACE. 


91 


‘ * No. Worse luck ! I had been sent to the Boston Navy Yard to 
look at a ship, ” replied the captain, in quick, chirping accents. 

They had approached the door of the theatre, and paused to look 
at the brilliant audience. By common consent their glance sought 
and found Camilla Belt, her dress of pale corded silk, embroidered 
with flowers, and tunic of terra-cotta satin contrasting with her step- 
mother’s toilet beyond, which consisted of white silk, wrought with 
sheaves of golden wheat, and swarms of dragon-flies hovering on 
jewelled and metallic wings. The Count Della Stella leaned over 
Mrs. Belt’s chair, toying with her fan of white ostrich plumes, inter- 
woven with pearl and shell on the Danicheff model. 

The two spectators in the doorway knew the value of a lady’s 
dress, to a nicety, but their mutual interest of the moment centred in 
the count. 

“That man calls himself a soldier, ’’remarked Colonel King, with 
a mirthless laugh. “He may serve for a military review on a royal 
birthday, but I should like to see him attacked by Sioux or Apache.” 

Captain Raw don smiled mysteriously. 

“1 have had considerable experience with the Genoese in my day,” 
he retorted, speaking as one whose estimate of the town was con- 
demnatory. 

From the expression of Colonel King’s eye the wish to consign 
Count Della Stella to the aborigines might be deemed sincere, while 
Captain Rawdon’s acquaintance with the sons of a once gallant re- 
public seemed to inspire him with no desire to add Camilla’s suitor 
to the number. 

“ That wicked brother of mine would have found no fossils to rid- 
icule in Professor Ashwell’s speech, ’’said Mrs. Monteith to Camilla. 

“Your brother?” queried the latter, glancing about her, involun- 
tarily. 

Camilla was languid, even abstracted. The count talked French 
with Aimee, affirming that he had fully understood every word ut- 
tered by Professor Ash well. Willy Monteith, safely intrenched be- 
tween the plump sisters of Sam Hardinge, by a manoeuvre of ma- 
ternal vigilance, gazed across an impassable gulf of laces and spark- 
ling embroideries, and found Aimee somewhat too vivacious in her 
responses to the count’s remarks. 

The company sought the supper-room, where an artistic and face- 
tious member had arranged the menu in the form of a catalogue, de- 
signed on a leaf of red ivory, with oysters serving as early studies, 
Crustacea for foreshortening, a pheasant for a portrait, and a round 
of beef as a cattle-piece, exquisite in texture and handling. The 
chief ornament of the table consisted of a frosted semblance, in spun 
sugar, of that primeval world to which Professor Ashwell had de- 


92 


TULIP PLACE. 


voted so much study. Strange shapes, roaming amidst rocks and 
shells of almond paste and chocolate, were distributed among the 
ladies. 

Mrs. Monteith, holding a semi-transparent, batlike pterosaurian 
between her finger and thumb, as one manages a shrimp, said to 
Donald Belt, in a tone that admitted of no denial : 

“Mr. Belt, we must take Professor Ash well to see Niagara in 
winter.” 

“We might make an excursion on a special train,” added Camilla, 
as she received from Colonel King an antediluvian hippopotamus of 
the Mediterranean shore, and a crystallized trilobite from Captain 
Rawdon, while the Count Della Stella hovered near with a fossil 
coral, flavored with vanilla. 

“ The ladies must decide the matter,” said Donald Belt, with his 
most gallant bow. 

In his own chamber William St. Nicholas drew the bow across the 
old violin, and even launched into a simple melody. His execution 
was timid and constrained. The strings of the instrument gave 
forth no strain of mingled cadences beneath his touch. Still less 
did inspiration lead him into any wild “Trillo del Diavolo.” His 
eye fell on the sketch he had made, from an historical work in his 
father’s library, of the “bowerie” of Oloffe the Dreamer. This 
sketch was to have completed the character assumed at the ball. 
He had not shown it to his hostess, after all. He took the paper 
and tore it into shreds. What child’s play it had all been ! 

Then he resumed his prelude on the instrument, with sudden dis- 
satisfaction. He was an echo, a paltry imitator! Old Muller, the 
teacher, must have laughed in his sleeve, in bequeathing to him the 
gift. Or was it intended to mock and tantalize, goading him to fresh 
effort, by a keen sense of his own imperfections? 

The violin was, also, an emigrant; a wanderer from afar. Fash- 
ioned in an Italian workshop centuries before, for those who should 
come after, on the bank of the river Po, the Amati was first tuned, 
perhaps, in the shadow of the Terrazo, or the loggia of the cathedral, 
a piercing note wailing fitfully about Campo-Santo and Baptistery, 
and thence across the Alps, keeping tone amidst untold vicissitude of 
change, until it became the faithful comrade of old Muller, and 
sought fortune only to find bitter poverty in the New World. 

The strings gave forth a note, faint, tremulous, and sweet, then a 
chord snapped. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN DANGER. 

“ There's not a flower on all the hills ,* the frost is on the pane .” — “ The May Queeu.” 

“ Well! What do you think of our Niagara?” inquired Donald 
Belt, with a smile of triumph. 

He valued more the awe and surprise reflected in the eyes of 
strangers than the actual scene as presented to his own observation. 

“ This is fine; truly majestic!” replied Professor Ashwell, after a 
pause. 

“Bellissima! Beautiful!” echoed the Count Della Stella. 

Professor Ashwell forgot his companions in the contemplation of 
nature, while to the count nature was ever secondary to the com- 
panion of the moment. 

The hour was early morning, and the January night had per- 
formed the function well of binding all objects in filaments of glitter- 
ing ice. The first rose flush of dawn had yielded to a golden glory, 
which was shed abroad over the wide expanse of open country, and 
lingered in the depths of deep blue sky, the glow and delicate re- 
flection of Arctic cold. The river flowed in a rapid current, foam- 
ing and flashing about fragments of ice, pausing on the brink, then 
sweeping down to the frozen silence of the gulf below, where the 
rude sculptor, Winter, was perpetually fashioning fresh groups of 
statuary out of the congealed foam of the cataract, all veiled in 
shifting vapors. 

The sun shone on the shrubbery of the banks, where the pendent 
masses of frozen spray sparkled like brilliants, and the interlacing 
twigs revealed the minute tracery of midnight frost. The eye, 
overawed by the tumultuous shock of the green masses of falling 
water, held prisoner, for a space, by the bridge below, and thence 
emerging once more in a limpid tide, caught the details of minute 
decoration on twig and bough. 

Morning smiled radiantly on the intruders, winds and storms were 
laid at rest. Save for the full and measured thunder of the fall 
there would have been silence; the profound stillness of the coun- 
try-side, wrapped in winter sleep. 

The party stood on the Canada bank, whither they had driven 


94 


TULIP PLACE. 


across the Suspension Bridge to obtain an uninterrupted view from 
the best point of observation. 

Professor Ashwell separated himself, by a few paces, from his 
companions, and remained silent. His praise had disappointed his 
host, by its brevity and coldness. 

The Englishman, the truest lover of nature among the nations, 
recalled all previous impressions received from sublime scenes, and 
added Niagara to the number. His gaze rested on the veil of trem- 
bling mist hovering over the masses of frozen shapes at the foot of 
the great cataract, and he again beheld the approach of day on the 
Bernese Alps, that barrier rising in ghostly whiteness, like the robes 
of a transfigured Redeemer, against the beryl green of the horizon, 
until the first sunbeam, passing from crag and spur to loftiest peak, 
flushed the marble to crimson and gold. An afternoon on the 
Refelberg, with a storm bursting over the Matterhorn, in which an 
exploring party was lost; a ramble among the Dolomites, when the 
grapes hung ripe beneath the withered leaves of every vineyard; 
holidays in Norway; yachting off the Welsh coast — each recurred 
to his mind, as he watched the lustrous mass of river curve over the 
smoothly worn lip of rock, on the opposite bank. 

The Count Della Stella was moved to wonder, as a poetical tem- 
perament, susceptible to all emotions. His expressions of admira- 
tion were sufficiently fervent and varied to satisfy Donald Belt’s na- 
tional pride. The count, keenly alive to beauty in any form, held 
his own ideal, beside which the untamed Niagara river, the savage 
fury of boiling torrents, spurning ice-fetters, appeared rude — one of 
the Titanic forces of earth which he did not comprehend. The 
terraced slope, adorned with statues, fountains, and parterres of 
flowers, such as Watteau loved to paint, with gay cavaliers and be- 
hooped dames in the foreground, better suited his tastes than this 
ice-bound scene, the mighty shaft of falling torrents troubling the 
ear, and intimidating the spectator with a crushing sense of human 
insignificance. 

He remembered garden fetes at Cannes and Nice, when the glow 
of lamps revealed shadowy masses of palm, aloe, and cassia, inter- 
spersed with sprays of roses, beds of ixora, hyacinth, and violets, great 
white arums, or the pink snow of the Judas tree, and the breath of 
Niagara made him shudder. Better the fierce African sun, the 
desert wastes, the rank forests of sluggish rivers, -than this pitiless 
realm of the Frost King. He drew nearer to the side of Camilla, 
and looked into her eyes. 

“You like it?” he hazarded. 

“ Yes,” she replied. “How clear and crisp the air is! All we 
need are wings,’' 


TULIP PLACE. 


95 


The sunshine rested on his face— the pure features, youthful, yet 
sharply accentuated— and laughed in the depths of his eyes. Narcissus 
may have had the same perennial freshness, when he sought the 
bank of the stream to contemplate his own reflected image. Such 
a mirror was ever held before the count in the admiration of wom- 
en, for to them the early Greek type appeals, even as a charm, in- 
articulate, evanescent, the merest echo of the sea-shell held to the 
unaccustomed ear. 

Camilla returned his glance with a smile that was tranquil and 
friendly rather than self-conscious. Daily intercourse with him 
had become pleasant, and his courtesy was calculated to brighten 
the hours of feminine idleness, in the best sense of the term. He 
preferred Mrs. Belt’s boudoir to the club, and was never bored when 
trying new music, toying with wools and needlework, making 
sketches, displaying tricks of legerdemain, as other men would have 
been. 

His popularity had been rapidly established, and he carefully cul- 
tivated a public estimation such as must inevitably enhance his 
value with Camilla, but he managed to consult the object of his in- 
terest by a rapid look, an unobtrusive gesture, in a way gratifying 
to the feelings of the most capricious and cold maiden. He was 
a soldier, in addition, and capable of carrying some frayed banner 
to battle, if necessary. 

Poor Mrs. Belt had never tasted the sweets of a deferential re- 
spect until she met the Count Della Stella, and the subtle flattery 
of a demeanor, deemed by him suitable towards a future mother-in- 
law, had already rendered her an ardent partisan. She had read of 
such knights, in stolen romances, and she was never weary of con- 
templating a suitor whose destiny seemed apart from a weary and 
commonplace world. 

When Camilla regarded him more seriously than as the compan- 
ion of an hour, she put aside the thought to the limit of the month 
of probation. She did not intend to accept him. She did not love 
him. She studied him curiously, speculatively, wondering, with a 
little dread, what his course would be when he learned the worst. 
Secure in her own conviction of strength she softened to tender 
reveries over his future. Would he threaten to destroy himself on 
learning the worst, and receiving her final rejection? She was very 
kind in her manner towards him, if, at times, preoccupied, while 
he was frankly confident, happy, and unsuspicious, with a shade 
more of respect in his intercourse with her than with her friends. 
Did he realize that her stern resolution was to banish him forever? 
All these fresh cares of choosing and rejecting the good and evil of 
life, of discriminating between real and false, were perplexing to 


96 


TULIP PLACE. 


Camilla Belt. She was already involved in a maze of entangling 
threads, as she realized, pausing there on the brink of Niagara. 

She had reached the fulfilment anticipated, longed for, by every 
girl, and yet she wished, with a sigh of impatience, that the change 
had not come so swiftly. 

Her father turned to her with a look of interest and irritation on 
his massive features. She approached and slipped her hand through 
his arm. She was not afraid of his displeasure. The embodiment 
of her day in this matter of filial reverence, she was prepared to dis- 
cuss any question with him, on terms of affectionate equality. 

“ What is it, pa?” inquired the girl who, as a child, had trotted up 
to her grandfather and grasped his cane. 

“Has Professor Ashwell spoken with you?” demanded Donald 
Belt, stooping to her ear, although the sound of the cataract ren- 
dered his words inaudible to the rest of the party. 

“ No; but Colonel King has made me a third proposal,” retorted 
Camilla, with a roguish glance at the discomfited warrior in ques- 
tion. “Why should Professor Ashwell speak to me?” 

Her father regarded her doubtfully. He was too impatient a 
man for the exercise of diplomatic finesse. He invariably went 
straight to the point, with a blunt directness which served him 
good purpose, in his own position, but would have frustrated many 
of the schemes of old Joseph Belt, in his time. 

“Professor Ashwell has been telling me that his chief interest in 
coming to America was to again see you, my girl,” said Donald 
Belt, watching her narrowly. “He wishes to marry you. I 
thought I would give you a hint in case he should say anything to 
you, on this journey.” 

“Ah!” said Camilla. 

She withdrew her arm, and turned to the others once more. Her 
glance swept the three men who wished to present themselves as 
suitors, and her first impulse was one of unreasonable repulsion. 
The next moment she joined hands with Aimee, and ran swiftly 
towards the building where Indian work was offered for sale. 

They were met by Captain Rawdon, and a young man wearing 
topboots, a fur-lined coat, and a sealskin cap set jauntily on his 
curls. 

“ Is there any reason why you ladies should keep Niagara all to 
yourselves?” inquired the latter, in a fresh and ringing voice. 

Willy Monteith had lured Captain Rawdon to accompany him, 
by another route, and overtaken the party at their destination. The 
boyish exploit filled his heart with glee. He looked at his mother 
with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes, as he greeted Camilla and 
Aimee. 


TULIP PLACE. 


9T 


“Did you expect me?” he demanded of the latter, gazing admir- 
ingly at the piquant face, framed by the soft gray fur of a coquet- 
tish hat. “What sport we might have on this snowcrust, Miss 
Belt, with sledges and skates. We should shoot the rapids before 
we knew it, if we once got going!” 

“Has anything happened at home, darling?” questioned Mrs. 
Monteith, advancing, 

Willy shook his head saucily, with the petulance of a spoiled 
child. 

“Nothing at all, mamma. How are you. Professor Ashwell? 
You see I have come to take care of my mother. In America the 
children look after the parents.” 

“A filial sentiment,” assented Professor Ashwell. 

He was meditating on the step he had taken in confiding his 
sentiments to Donald Belt. The latter had listened in some surprise, 
apparently, and promised to speak with his daughter. At the 
same time the American had intimated that he was in no haste to 
have his only child select a husband. The paleontologist, now a 
prey to the conflicting emotions of his state, like other men, com- 
menced to regard the brilliant Italian with some anxiety. The 
count was always near Camilla, and while Professor Ashwell was 
thoroughly convinced that the other could never be measured by a 
standard of equality with an Englishman, he deemed it prudent to 
have his own feelings distinctly understood by the family. 

Donald Belt comprehended that, in placing at the disposition of a 
distinguished savant his guest-chamber, dressing-rooms, and library, 
he had nourished in his bosom, not a viper, but a prospective son- 
in-law. The revelation astonished him. 

“I suppose your uncle scorns Niagara,” said Camilla, selecting 
Indian beadwork at the stalls with a reckless hand, and giving her 
parcels to Captain Rawdon to carry for her. 

“ He’s grinding away tremendously at practising on an old violin,” 
retorted Willy, slyly inserting a velvet bag into Aimee’s muff. ‘ ‘ Let 
us purchase some moccasins for the slothful bachelor, mamma. ” 

“ The slothful bachelor?” repeated Camilla, interrogatively. 

“Our family name for my brother. Miss Belt,” explained Mrs. 
Monteith. “ There was once a picture in Punch, you know, of the 
slothful bachelor, who was beguiled into calling on a lady he be- 
lieved to be out, in his dressing-gown and slippers.” 

“It was all a jolly sell, for the lady was at home,” supplemented 
Willy. 

“We use the term as a warning, for my brother is really very 
popular with the ladies. I sometimes think too much so,” said Mrs. 
Monteith, with a fleeting smile. 

7 


98 


TULIP PLACE. 


Camilla looked at her without comment, yet wondering at her 
probable meaning. How could William St. Nicholas be too popu- 
lar? 

A week had elapsed since Mrs. Monteith had made the suggestion 
of showing Professor Ashwell the falls of Niagara in winter, at the 
Meerschaum Club. The lady had left all details of arrangement to 
Donald Belt, with such satisfactory result as a palace car, attached 
to a special train, wending its way out to the city of Buffalo. The 
hours had sped merrily in this crystal prison, the most perfect 
phase of modern luxury in travel, with a snowy landscape flitting 
past the windows, while all was warmth within, of silken curtains, 
cushioned recesses, and soft rugs. 

Count Della Stella had brought his guitar, and sang in a silvery 
tenor voice those ‘ * rispetti ” and ‘ ‘ stornelli ” which, composed at 
Naples, or by the people of Tuscan mountain slopes, have passed 
from lip to lip since the fourteenth century, treasured by the gran- 
dam, piped by the children tending the sheep and goats, hummed 
by the peddler, as ‘ ‘ Pinafore ” and opera-bouffe airs render melodi- 
ous modern streets in the whistling of urchins and wheezing of bar- 
rel-organs. 

Professor Ashwell had told ghost stories, thrilling his hearers with 
descriptions of the hereditary spectre of baronial halls, the light in 
the turret chamber, beheld in the gloaming of the Scotch loch, the 
banshee and hare of Irish castles. 

Mrs. Southby, the orchid lady, attended by a silent and cadaver- 
ous husband and Colonel King, was not the least animated member 
of the party. 

Mrs. Monteith was alone, all efforts to induce her father and 
brother to accompany her having proved unavailing, while she did 
not wish to take her son. 

“When night falls I like to contemplate sleeping in my own bed,” 
said Mr. St. Nicholas, warming his white hands at the fire of his 
library. 

“I am not interested in the panorama business, my dear Alice,” 
the brother had added. 

“Then I must support the family dignity unaided,” she had 
plaintively rejoined. “You are both broken reeds.” 

Argus-eyed public opinion was sitting in judgment on Mrs. Mon- 
teith, at this date, especially the ladies of her acquaintance who had 
composed the living flowers at Camilla’s ball. She had taken up 
the Belts with her customary impulsiveness, as she would infal- 
libly snub these new people later. Alice St. Nicholas could snub 
people, teach them their places, in the most polished and effectual 
manner. In the meanwhile she must have her reasons for her pres- 


TULIP PLACE. 


99 


ent line of conduct, and there was not a motive in the entire range 
of feminine duplicity with which she was not speedily accredited 
in animated discussion at luncheon-party and kettledrum. The ma- 
trons who had failed to interest William St. Nicholas in their own 
daughters were not slow to press the thorn of conviction into their 
bosoms that Mrs. Monteith was endeavoring to make a match be- 
tween her brother and Camilla. Perhaps the sly mother even had 
designs on the heiress for Willy the younger. The Orchid and 
other married ladies, Mrs. Monteith’s contemporaries, were of the 
opinion that she was interested in Professor Ashwell. Public opin- 
ion then turned on Camilla, with common consent, finding her feat- 
ures irregular, her shoulders too high, and that she was a perfect 
fright when over-dressed, having no true perception of artistic blend- 
ing of colors, with the result, cynical or philosophical, of such de- 
fects not signifying with a fortune of ten millions. 

Returning to the hotel, the ladies withdrew, to rest before dinner, 
and Mrs. Monteith claimed the attendance of her son, with a little 
asperity of tone, which was her sole expression of displeasure at his 
advent. Willy defied maternal solicitude to the extent of urging 
Professor Ashwell to explore the ice-bridge and mounds at the base 
of the cataract. 

“So you believe in true love, Mademoiselle Aimee?” said Mrs. 
Belt, continuing a thread of conversation taken up during the drive 
back to the hotel. 

“Oh, yes, madame!” retorted the little Aimee, eagerly. 

“I had the same faith at your age,” said the older woman, lapsing 
unconsciously into a tone of sombre reverie. 

Aimee lowered her eyes quickly, fearing she had betrayed some 
indiscreet curiosity, but she could not resist repeating softly: 

“ The erring painter made Love blind, 

Highest Love, who shines on all ; 

Him, radiant, sharpest-sighted god 
None can bewilder; 

Whose eyes pierce 
The universe. 

Path-finder, road-builder, 

Mediator, royal giver. 

Rightly seeing, rightly seen, 

Of joyful and transparent mien.” 

“ A pretty sentiment,” commented Mrs. Belt. “ Are people ever 
like that, in our day?” She paused abruptly, and regarded her two 
companions with a scared expression. 

The eyes and cheeks of Aimee glowed. 

“I am sure of it, dear madame,” she answered, bravely. “I 
would rather die than disbelieve it. You know the history of 


100 


TULIP PLACE. 


Mademoiselle Lullin? No? How strange! She was young, beau- 
tiful, rich, and affianced to the botanist Huber, when he was stricken 
with blindness. Other suitors endeavored to win her, but she kept 
her word and married him. Tiens! She was sight and life, a per- 
petual joy to her husband. Huber said: ‘ Je serais presque desole 
de ne pas £tre aveugle, car je ne connaitrais pas a quel point ou 
peut-$tre aime.’ Ah, madame, that was love!” 

The sudden eloquence of Aimee astonished even herself. The 
words seemed to escape from her heart, by her lips, unawares. 

Mrs. Belt’s abstraction became more profound. 

“ To live and die for a man,” she murmured. “ Few women re- 
semble Mademoiselle Lullin. ” 

“ Perhaps there are many,” interpolated Camilla. 

“No! No! There are few, very few,” cried the stepmother, as 
if the protest were wrung from her against her will. 

Camilla approached Aimee, and took her by the chin. 

“What is all this, mademoiselle?” she demanded, with assumed 
gravity. ‘ ‘ Are we to inform the Aunt Marthe at Geneva that some 
gay cavalier has been sighing . 

“ ‘ She will not give me heaven. ’Tis well. 

Lose who may — I still can say, 

Those who win heaven, blest are they.’ ” 

“You will not have to think such things of me, dear Miss 
Belt,” retorted Aimee quickly. “I defend the sentiment, that is 
all.” 

“ Did you leave your heart behind you among the glacier peaks, 
cherie V’ teased Camilla. 

“I came from the pension to you, Miss Belt. I have never had an 
affaire de cceur,” said Aimee, laughing to conceal petulance. 

Twilight deepened to the winter night. A keen wind came wail- 
ing up the gorge, swaying the Suspension Bridge on the cobweb tra- 
cery of cables. On the opposite, Canada, shore a house was burn- 
ing, and the flames, bursting through the roof, cast a ruddy glow on 
the faces of the crowd gathered to assist, and to witness the disaster. 

Camilla Belt stood on the brink, charmed and troubled by the 
grandeur of the spectacle. By what miracle of change were the past 
and the present swept away, leaving only the tremulous gleam of a 
future? 

From time to time the wind bore confused cries across the stream, 
from the scene of conflagration, but the panic, distress, and despair 
seemed remote, separated by that frozen barrier, and reached the 
passive observer in distorted and fantastic shape, like the images of 
dreams. 

“If they are poor people I should like to build them another 


TULIP PLACE. 


101 


house,” thought Camilla, drawing her furred mantle more closely 
about her. 

The voice of the darkness rather than of the light, the fall filled 
all nature with the mighty volume of a perpetual anthem. Now it 
acquired the tone of giants rending the subterranean forces of the 
earth in anger, or no less terrible mirth. Again, a chorus of winds 
seemed to interweave their strain with the lament of the hurrying 
river, swirling in dark pools, foam-flecked, mingling in a louder mur- 
mur about bowlders, and dying away amidst hollow echoes, as if 
finally lost in invisible caves. The mists of spray trembled on the 
breath of night, blanching to ethereal vapor, suspended in the air, 
in contrast with the gloom of cliffs worn by the wasting torrents of 
years, then settled again in heavier folds over the frothy waves. 
The snow spread a mantle on the surrounding country, vast, undu- 
lating, lost in the gray obscurity of horizon, here clinging in soft 
masses to bough and trunk of tree, and there swept into hillocks 
by the storm. 

The stars, sparkling in the sky, found transient reflections, faint 
and evanescent, in the crystal masses of pendent icicle, bridge, and 
spray-drenched shrubbery. 

Willy Monteith drew Mademoiselle Aimee away to peer over 
giddy brinks. Oh, the terrible fascination of gazing far down into 
the abyss, with a companion close at one’s side, to echo the wonder 
inspired! 

“Mr. Belt, may I beg you to reclaim my son for me?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Monteith, in a tone of annoyance mingled with genuine alarm. 
“ He is utterly reckless, and he has not the head of a Swiss moun- 
taineer. ” 

“Mamzelle, you are wanted!” said Donald Belt; and his clear, 
metallic voice, with the ring of authority in its tones, reached the 
girl’s ear even amidst the roar of the cascade. 

She returned to Mrs. Belt’s side as demurely as a kitten, but with 
the breathless exhilaration and sparkling eyes peculiar to the young 
of all created animals, after indulging in a scamper. 

Willy rejoined his mother, with the same decorous compliance to 
authority, and the two stole glances at each other across their elders. 

In coming forth to view the scene, after dinner, Professor Ash- 
well had placed himself beside Camilla, while the Count Della Stella 
no less obstinately assumed his post on her left. 

“ You are not fond of climbing, count,” said the professor. “You 
did not join us this afternoon.” 

“ On ice? No,” replied the count, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Confess that you are not a member of the Alpine Club,” said 
the professor, laughing in a dry manner. 


102 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ I have done some military work in the Alps,” was the impertur- 
bable response, as the count twisted his mustache. 

If Professor Ashwell, annoyed himself, intended to irritate his 
adversary as well, by administering those pin-pricks always possible 
in the most affable general conversation, the count ignored any such 
intention. 

The latter made a careless movement forward on the smooth crust 
of snow, already hardening with the frost of another night, and his 
foot slipped on the perilous brink. 

Camilla, with the rapidity of instinct rather than any distinct re- 
alization of danger, stretched forth her hands, caught his arm, and 
drew him back to her side. The swerving to right or left of an inch, 
a moment more, with impetus gained on the slope, and the count 
would have disappeared forever in the gulf below. Nay, additional 
weight forward, and he would have dragged Camilla with him. 

The peril over, each read the danger in the other’s eyes. 

“ Mind your footing,” warned Professor Ashwell. 

His voice sounded dry, hollow, far away, to their ears, mingling 
with the surging of the waters and the moaning of the wind. The 
rest of the party had not realized the incident, in the obscurity. 

“Are you safe?” gasped Camilla, awakening to the shock of a 
great surprise without fully comprehending the change. 

This man had hung over the precipice edge, threatened with a 
fearful death, and she had saved him. 

The count took her hand, kissed it reverentially and placed it 
within his arm. 

“ Camilla mia, love me, or I shall wish you had allowed me to 
perish there,” he pleaded, in a tone of passionate entreaty. 

Camilla was dumb, spellbound. The night, with its myriad voices, 
the stars glittering far above, the sombre river, striving to free the 
turbid waters of baffling ice, answered for her: 

“To save is to pity or to love.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A TWELFTH-NIGHT CAKE. 

“ Love the gift is Love the debt . ” — “ The Miller’s Daughter.” 

The slip on the ice, so nearly fatal to the Count Della Stella, was 
productive of immediate consequences. The party had returned to 
New York by the Hudson River, a trifle spent and weary of such 
intimate intercourse, in the mood apt to prevail at the close of an 
excursion, or during the last days of a protracted voyage. 

“ Sure I am 

The touchstone of companionship will test 
Heart’s gold, and purge base pinchbeck.” 

Professor Ashwell, Colonel King, and Captain Rawdon experi- 
enced an uncomfortable conviction that they had, respectively, come 
in for a large share of the pinchbeck. 

To Camilla the way was not long. The motion of the train per- 
mitted her to think, undisturbed, while her gaze followed the wind- 
ings of the river, frozen the entire length from mountain to sea. 
Groups of men drew great blocks of pure ice from the current, at 
certain points, and occasionally a sledge-boat skimmed before the 
wind with sail set. 

In her meditations she compared the stream to her own life in the 
phase of girlhood, that was rapidly vanishing, left far behind. She 
asked herself, with a thrill of dreamy wonder, if she were about to 
seek unknown shores. The strength of purpose, on which she had 
prided herself, had failed her in the very moment of trial. The 
physical energy that had served good purpose in grasping the arm 
of her companion had left her, in reaction, morally weak. She had 
given her word to this beautiful, tender, and impassioned lover, un- 
der the stars, on the brink of Niagara. In her dreams she saw him 
poised over the awful abyss of swirling mist and rock, held back by 
her hand alone, and her whole nature began to warm towards him. 
The interest awakened in her breast was not unmingled with some 
faint curiosity. She was perplexed rather than happy. He be- 
longed to her, body and soul. Why should she not belong to him? 

The count, having discussed military tactics with Colonel King, and 
railway systems with several members of the Meerschaum Club, had 


104 


TULIP PLACE . 


taken a seat in the palace car beside Mrs. Belt, who made a place 
for him, smilingly. The gentlemen of the Meerschaum Club were 
disposed to think well of him, whatever the opinion secretly cher- 
ished by Colonel King might have been, for he possessed, in a rare 
degree, those qualities of character for which a Frenchman would 
have designated him as “ spirituel,” and an Anglo-Saxon “a good 
fellow.” 

He, also, contemplated the ice-bound river, and discreetly held 
aloof from Camilla. He scarcely saw the Hudson, for the exulta- 
tion filling his soul rendered him almost oblivious of his compan- 
ions. The winter day, with a sky presaging one of the great snow- 
storms of the year, could not chill the glow of triumph in his heart. 
He was victorious. He had won the cause in a week, instead of 
lingering in suspense for a month. Camilla had given her word. 
The father would not favor his suit, but he did not fear the oppo- 
sition of authoritative Donald Belt. There must be some chord to 
touch skilfully in his organization, some thread to pull, if one took 
the trouble to study the matter. At present such study was super- 
fluous. The ladies were on his side. Camilla should be made to 
love him as he loved her. 

Since his most tender years of military cadetship the count had 
enshrined some female image in his thought, and carried a photo- 
graph in his pocket for frequent and rapturous contemplation. 
Easily transferred, this vigorous vine of sentiment had twined afresh 
about Camilla with an unquestionable sincerity of ardor, if not 
without alloy of delight in all the benefits she would be able to be- 
stow upon him. 

In his school of life he was neither mercenary nor vicious. In- 
deed, his temperate avoidance of all excesses might put to shame 
many a reveller of colder climates, while his simplicity of personal 
habits would be deemed naive by Paris, London, and New York. A 
perfectly natural phase of devotion to Camilla was to behold him- 
self, in agreeable contemplation, in the future state of matrimony, 
and not the bride, heiress, wife. He would shine before his world, 
thanks to a good marriage, and without suitable settlements he could 
not marry at all. 

An occasional word uttered by Mrs. Belt did not check his castle- 
building, and yet, in the midst of rose-tinted reveries, conjured up by 
success, the count was aware of some disturbing current of influ- 
ence. He turned his head slowly, and perceived the eyes of Mrs. 
Monteith and her son fixed upon him. 

Willy was teaching Mademoiselle Aimee a, game of cards at the 
little table in the centre of the car, and Mrs. Monteith found occa- 
sion to watch their progress. 


TULIP PLACE. 


105 


The glance, purely involuntary on their part, had been sensitively 
felt by the count. 

“That woman would bring me misfortune if she could,” thought 
the object of scrutiny, with a chill sentiment of superstition, and he 
made a rapid gesture of averting the Evil Eye. 

He had studied the career of his countryman, Christopher Colum- 
bus, in visiting America, entirely with reference to the compliments 
easily conveyed to the people. Now he began to cherish a certain 
feeling of fatalism in comparison between them. The dream was 
fair, of finding the forests fragrant with spices, the mountains shin- 
ing with priceless gems ; the magical transmutation of all metals into 
gold was easy, to lead a crusade in rebuilding the Holy Sepulchre 
possible; but the unshipping of the rudder, the somnolency of the 
helmsman, the error of a marine observation, might wreck the enter- 
prise. What mischief could the dislike of the lady with the aquiline 
nose bring to him, Azzolino Della Stella? He dismissed the misgiv- 
ing with a smile of amusement lurking beneath the veil of silky 
mustache. Perhaps there passed before his vision at the moment 
one of the maxims of his race: “The world belongs to him who 
will take it.” 

The false step on the snow-crusted bank of Niagara had been very 
genuine, and wholly unpremeditated, and he still shrank from con- 
templating the risk he had run. The count did not court death. 
He did not belong to the class of men who dare the breath of the 
avalanche to annihilate, or scale peaks from preference. His natu- 
ral quickness of mind had led him to strengthen the situation, by 
artificial means, afterwards. He had thrown himself on the mercy 
of Camilla when she was trembling for his safety, and she hady 
yielded. He glanced at her, seated opposite in the car, grateful to 
her for the rescue he preferred to owe to her than to another woman, 
and still better satisfied with the key to her own character thus 
placed in his grasp. 

“You must draw three times from the pack, mademoiselle,” an- 
nounced Willy Monteith, shuffling the cards diligently. “ If I 
wrote you a little note would you reply, to the care of Samuel Har- 
dinge, Bachelors’ Club? Yes, draw three times, so!” 

Aimee shook her head, and gazed attentively at the cards instead 
of at her interlocutor; but a kindred glow touched both of the 
young faces, and a dimple appeared in the girl’s olive cheek. Oh, 
why was Mrs. Monteith so haughty and suspicious in her bearing 
when her son was so kind? 

The party reached New Y ork, and separated. The news flew abroad 
on every wind that Camilla Belt was surely engaged to the Count Del- 
la Stella. Stormy debates must ensue with her father, who was sure 


106 


TULIP PLACE. 


to be prejudiced against such a match, but Camilla would have her 
own way, and if she had decided to marry the count no obstacle in 
the world would prevent her. A girl with such a chin usually knows 
her own mind, at least. Thus reasoned the gossips, stimulated by 
fresh items of interest concerning the excursion to Niagara from the 
lips of the Orchid lady, and endless conjectures as to the trousseau 
and wedding ensued. Of course Camilla would go to Europe im- 
mediately, and probably live at Rome. Would she cut all her 
American friends ever afterwards? Visions of the carnival, and the 
recuperation of failing health to be derived from journeys abroad, 
as well as the linguistic and musical improvement of the children, 
began to take form in feminine brains, together with much leaning 
on the advice of the family physician, whose skill, or the reverse, 
would depend on the fiat issued by the lips of HSsculapius on fitting 
occasion. 

Discussions there were in the Belt mansion, where the master 
found himself foiled at every turn. The count had presented his 
claim with dignity and address, and Donald Belt had received him 
brusquely, scanning the suitor with open hostility from keen eyes 
beneath knitted, shaggy brows. 

“He wishes to still manage his daughter’s fortune,” the count 
had reasoned, mentally, scrutinizing his own slender gaiter. Aloud, 
he added: 

“I love your daughter, and I venture to believe she loves me.” 

Camilla had been equally unsatisfactory in her demeanor. She 
had calmly, even smilingly, confronted her parent, resting her hands 
on his shoulders, and demanded his objections to Count Della Stella. 
Did her father know anything derogatory to him as a gentleman? 
He was a foreigner. Every man could not be born an American. 
She knew, and believed in him. She was going to be very, very 
fond of him. 

Donald Belt lost patience at this juncture, and burst forth with: 

“What can a girl know of a man? I had expected more of 
you.” 

“What more can you ask than that I love my husband and he 
loves me?” inquired the daughter, steadily. 

Her composure was unusual, her eyes dreamy, musing, rather than 
lighted by the tremors of doubt and the delight of a first love. Her 
stepmother, watching her, reflected that it was not in this fashion 
she should have accepted the count in her own maidenhood. In 
this domestic dissension the timid and reticent woman, who shrank 
from contention with her dictatorial lord, unexpectedly turned upon 
him. 

“ Perhaps you would prefer Professor Ashwell for a son-in-law,” 


TULIP PLACE. 


107 


she suggested, in an accent of scorn, while her delicate nostrils dilated 
as if to give emphasis to her words. 

He looked at her in silence for a moment, thrusting his hands 
into the pockets of his coat, and then said, abruptly, 

‘ * I suppose Professor Ashwell is an honest man. ” 

“ Why should not the count be an honest man also?” urged Mrs. 
Belt, with irrational, feminine partisanship seasoned by a grain of 
the salt of true logic. “It seems to me the professor is as open to 
the charge of fortune-hunting as the count. Besides, the standard is 
different. The count cannot marry without money, while the pro- 
fessor can very well marry any poor girl in his own country, if 
he chooses.” 

“Thank you, mamma,” said Camilla, kissing the cheek of this 
unexpected partisan. “You will be the most beautiful American 
at Rome, when you come over. We shall hear the old term perpetu- 
ally repeated of La belle Americaine. I intend having a bust made of 
you, mamma, by a famous sculptor the count has told me about.” 

“If you must marry out of your own country, I should prefer an 
Englishman,” demurred Donald Belt, frowning at the two women, 
whose attitude was that of conspirators. 

“Nobody wishes me for a wife in my own country,” laughed 
Camilla. “ Besides, you have not found me that British duke, sir.” 

“I don’t see the hurry,” retorted Donald Belt, declining to smile 
at these pleasantries. “ Put off your wedding until next year.” 

“No; I have promised to return with him;” Camilla spoke slow- 
ly, yet with resolution. 

Donald Belt was aghast. He grew a trifle pale about the lips; a 
symptom of powerful emotion with him. He repented of the folly 
of allowing the count to daily frequent his house, now that he saw 
clearly the silken meshes of the net of intimacy woven about the 
family by such intercourse. For a moment he was shaken by the 
fierce anger which longs to assert parental authority and imprison 
a rebellious daughter in seclusion until she repents of folly and 
bends to the dictates of maturer wisdom. Then he remembered 
Camilla was of age, and had always asserted a will of her own. 

“You seem to have promised this — this foreigner a great many 
things !” he exclaimed, with pardonable bitterness. ‘ ‘ I don’t know 
what you can find to admire in him except a big mustache. Of 
course my advice goes for nothing.” 

Camilla put her arm about his neck. 

“Your advice is worth much, father dear,” she replied, with the 
steady yet abstracted expression that was new to her. “ You would 
not like me to become a dry and stiff old maid, instead of the Count- 
ess Della Stella; now, would you?” 


108 


TULIP PLACE. 


“There need be no question of your becoming a dry and stiff old 
maid,” he said, angrily. “One would think you were bewitched, 
and that the count had thrown some spell over you.” 

“ The spell of love,” murmured Mrs. Belt, softly. 

Her husband glanced at her with inexpressible contempt. 

“You are a fool !” he ejaculated. “Come, come, Camilla, wake 
up! rouse yourself, and put the marriage off for a while.” 

Camilla gave him a look of sudden doubt and distrust. Was he 
in the right, and she in the wrong? How could she decide? How 
could a girl ever know? 

“It is too late. I have given my word,” she said, after a moment 
of reflection. 

“ A girl’s word does not count for much,” hinted the father, with 
prompt sophistry. 

Camilla shook her head. Perhaps she rejoiced that indecision 
was no longer possible. 

Then Donald Belt set himself to arranging his daughter’s affairs, 
with the aid of the best legal advice, and the distinct aim of curtail- 
ing future extravagance in a prospective son-in-law by every pos- 
sible means. 

He gave his hand to the count sullenly at their next meeting, 
but he was understood to have yielded to the wishes of Camilla, 
since it was not in his power to alter her resolution. Old Joseph 
Belt had left the management of Camilla’s fortune to his son only 
during her minority, and now there could be no doubt of her right 
to select a husband, especially if no graver fault need be found with 
the suitor than his foreign birth, good looks, and grace of bear- 
ing. 

Apart from the surface effusions of public life, which tended to 
establish his popularity, Donald Belt was stern and reticent to a de- 
gree that rendered him open to the imputation of hardness. No 
one was aware of the full extent of his disappointment in the choice 
of his only child. He had expected better things of Camilla than 
that she should permit herself to be taken captive by the first comer. 
The proposal of Professor Ashwell had not moved him to enthusi- 
asm, yet the paleontologist was better than the Count Della Stella. 
Foreign titles inspired distrust in Donald Belt, aware that he was 
too ignorant to detect the genuine from the false. He had neither 
leisure nor inclination to study the matter; the present sufficed for 
him, and the city of New York, with an occasional voyage to Europe, 
was a sphere absorbing all his energies. His nights were robbed of 
sleep, and his spirit was heavy, because, in his estimation, his daugh- 
ter had gone so cheaply. In the family circle his manner suffered 
an increased surliness. Irascible in temper, he had ever been an in- 


TULIP PLACE. 


109 


dulgent father, and was an unsympathetic rather than a tyrannical 
husband. 

On Twelfth Night the Belt house was again open to receive visit- 
ors. Professor Ashwell was on the eve of departure for Boston. 
No avowal of attachment had been made by the learned man, who 
readily perceived that such overtures would be superfluous. Such 
chagrin as he may have experienced was kept safely locked in his 
own breast. 

Camilla’s bearing towards the professor was marked by a gayety 
verging on mockery. She was attentive to his preferences, as a host- 
ess alone can be, and she even crossed lances with him in those dis- 
cussions of national differences in which Mrs. Monteith delighted. 
The latter had more esprit and delicacy, it is true, for Camilla’s war- 
fare partook of the independence that is akin to bluntness. 

A frivolous and giddy girl, the professor decided her to be, and 
perhaps unworthy of his steel. He began to perceive that differences 
existed in the States, as elsewhere. Mrs. Monteith was evidently 
better born and better bred than Camilla Belt. 

There had been a dinner-party that evening, after which all the 
world was invited to cut a Twelfth-cake with Professor Ashwell, 
previous to his departure. 

At eight o’clock Mrs. Monteith, object of flattering comparison in 
the mind of the savant, entered the library, enveloped in a dressing- 
gown, with her hair dishevelled, and a vinaigrette in her hand, 

“I am not going to the Belts,” she announced, yawning. “My 
head aches, and I am tired.” 

Willy, the younger, made a backward turn on the carpet, with 
his left foot. 

“We are sure to have a dance in that prime ballroom,” he said, 
with the inconsequence of youth. 

“We? Who?” questioned his mother, sharply, and raising her 
head to look at him. 

“Oh, everybody,” he retorted, carelessly. “There’s to be some 
sort of a surprise for Twelfth Night. Miss Belt and Mademoiselle 
Aimee have arranged it all.” 

“Indeed! Will you serve again as Phaeton?” pursued Mrs. Mon- 
teith, with tart displeasure. 

“ I’ve not been invited,” laughed Willy. “How glum you look, 
mamma! You used to be fond of a bit of fun yourself.” 

Mrs. Monteith reverted to a contemplation of the fire, without re- 
sponse. 

“Alice must break down, some time,” remarked Mrs. St. Nicholas, 
unfolding a fresh newspaper beside the shaded lamp on the table. 
‘ ‘ Her nerves seem to be made of steel. People live too fast nowadays. ” 


110 


TULIP PL A CE. 


“I think it would be civil for me to go,” said William St. Nich- 
olas, who was searching the columns of another journal near the 
lamp. 

His sister shot a glance of annoyance in his direction. 

“What is the use of your going, my dear William?” she de- 
manded. 

“You see, it would be civil,” he repeated, speaking a little hur- 
riedly for him, and with his face concealed by the newspaper. 

“ I will look in, myself,” said Mr. St. Nicholas, briskly. 

At nine o’clock Mrs. Monteith stood at the street door, surrounded 
by billows of lavender silk, and buttoning a glove, with an expres- 
sion of martyrdom on her face. 

“If you are all going I must take my share of the burden,” she 
said, plaintively. 

“You are a good girl,” replied her brother, smiling beneath his 
beard at heroism which was transparent to him. ‘ ‘ I suppose it is 
more convenable for us to go.” 

“Yes. We must set a good example,” she answered, smiling in 
turn. 

The ladies of the opposite house awaited their guests, each in her 
own way. Mrs. Belt, attired in ruby velvet, with panels of satin 
flowers outlined with gold, and sleeves which permitted glimpses of 
snowy shoulder and arm through the embroidery, had seated her- 
self in an antique chair with a high back carved in black and gilt. 
Here, with her white hair gathered in soft puffs, her fan moving 
idly, and her heeled slipper tapping the carpet, she resembled a por- 
trait of a lady of the eighteenth century. 

Little Mademoiselle Aimee, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with gar- 
net ornaments, flitted from room to room, admiring her own toilet 
in the mirrors as she passed, or pausing to adjust a jewelled pin anew 
in the coils of her dark tresses. 

Camilla paced the picture-gallery, absorbed in thought. Her robe 
of jasper-green Genoese velvet, with Japanese brocade, shimmered 
in a glittering train on the tessellated floor. 

William St. Nicholas approached her, while his father and sister 
paused to greet Mrs. Belt. Camilla watched him advance towards 
her with an odd sensation of pleasure and triumph, not unmingled 
with pain. The emotion was inexplicable to her, and quickly sup- 
pressed, only it seemed to her that she was bidding farewell to her 
childhood and youth, as the dying take leave of familiar objects. 

Possibly the same thought occurred to him, for he smiled, and ex- 
tended his hand, in which Camilla frankly placed her own. What 
was the superiority of William St. Nicholas to her now? 

“ Fate has really dealt unfairly with us, Miss Belt, for, although 


TULIP PLACE. 


Ill 


we have the same birthday, we have never become acquainted,” he 
said. 

“A lost opportunity, Mr. St. Nicholas. I am going to live across 
the seas,” replied Camilla. 

Music floated through the door, the fairy harmonies — thrilling, 
trembling, and mingling in exquisite accord— of mandolins. Count 
Della Stella had discovered a company of mandolinisti, and thus 
presented them to a new audience. 

“Will you be happy?” 

William St. Nicholas did not utter the words aloud, and yet they 
reached Camilla’s ear and soul as the emanation of his thought. To 
be happy! To make the happiness of another life! The rippling 
melody of the mandolins merged into a minor key, fitful, pensive, 
like the fleeting shadow of a half -uttered regret. Camilla’s heart 
leaped in her breast, and then seemed to pause in its feverish pul- 
sations. A sudden tremor of misgiving shook her and forced her 
to contemplate her own weakness, all the while the music breathed 
forth airy measure, and the neighbor from over the way stood before 
her in the picture-gallery, uttering the usual platitudes of society. 

These two looked at each other, moved by a grave, mutual in- 
quiry: on the part of the man, amused, speculative, quizzical; on the 
part of the woman, softer, more serious, even magnetic, because robbed 
of personal self-consciousness. They might have met daily for 
years, under ordinary circumstances, without the transmission of 
that light from eye to eye. The change which had come to Camilla 
smote the spark of vital fire from the metal of cold indifference. 

“ And you?” 

The gaze of Camilla penetrated, weighed, scathed in a merciless 
scrutiny; the egotism of William St. Nicholas shrivelled before a 
judgment impossible to withstand. 

Then a mellow voice said : 

“Camilla mia, I have brought the wedding-fan. It is my moth- 
er’s gift. To-night you belong all to Genoa.” 

The Count Della Stella stood before them, brilliant, radiant, and 
joyous. Neither Camilla nor William St. Nicholas had heard his 
step. He had assumed his uniform of black and gold to gratify 
Mrs. Belt, and the soldier’s garb suited him marvellously well. He 
bowed to the visitor, extended his hand, and said, “How do.” 

Mr. St. Nicholas returned the greeting, and withdrew to seek Mrs. 
Belt. 

Camilla accepted the gift with a smile, and a flush on her cheek, 
while the count’s glance enveloped her with a caressing appreciation 
of her Genoa velvet train. 

The fan, work of a Roman artist, represented a wedding of a 


112 


TULIP PLACE. 


Della Stella with one of a noble family of Mantua, equally illustrious. 
The bride advanced in a grand sala paved with marble and hung 
with tapestry, accompanied by four cavaliers of honor, and extend- 
ed her hand to the groom, attired in the costume of the fourteenth 
century. Groups of noble ladies assisted at the nuptials, with pages 
in attendance, while Cupids held aloft the circlet of ring between the 
scutcheons of the two houses. 

' Willy Monteith’s expectations were verified, and Twelfth Night 
celebrated with becoming merriment. At one moment a fortune- 
teller went about, whose disguise was impenetrable, and read the 
palms of the company, finding especial reason for studying those of 
Camilla and the count. At another time Camilla presided over a 
lottery, the numbers of which had been previously distributed 
among the company, and each proved a prize. Another diversion 
occasioned Mrs. Monteith anxiety, for it necessitated the withdrawal 
of her son, with other young people, to a distant room, until the 
doors were opened, revealing a Swiss chalet, decked with the 
traditional agates, wood-carving, crystals, and onyx beads, and where 
a music-box played “William Tell.” Mademoiselle Aimee stood be- 
hind the counter, as saleswoman, in the peasant costume of the Can- 
ton Berne. 

Who so adroit and ingratiating as the little Aimee, disposing of 
crystal bonbon-boxes for the ladies, and cigar-cases for the gentle- 
men, all marked with Camilla’s monogram. 

Mrs. Monteith tapped her brother on the arm. 

“ I wish you would oblige me by devoting yourself to that Swiss 
maiden,” she whispered. 

“ She is a pretty little creature,” he assented, indolently. 

“ She is as artful as the rest of her class,” said Mrs. Monteith, 
sharply. 

When supper was served, Professor Ashwell was led before a gi- 
gantic Twelfth-cake, surrounded by the rose, thistle, and shamrock, 
in sugar wreathings, and crowned by the figure of Britannia, and 
requested to cut it with a silver knife. 

A bowl of punch smoked near, a traditional tribute to his supposed 
preference in a beverage, as unalterable as the Continental faith in 
raw beef as his chief aliment. 

Old Mr. St. Nicholas gave a toast over the punch, and pledged 
the guest in the first glass. He was altogether gracious in his de- 
meanor to Donald Belt, and paid Mrs. Belt flowery compliments, 
with a flavor of old-fashioned elegance about them. He admired 
the Count Della Stella, according him the willing tribute of age, 
once young and handsome. 

Returning home across the street, after midnight, he was the 


TULIP PLACE. 


113 


most cheerful and loquacious member of his family. He permitted 
himself the indulgence of a fine curiosity as to settlements, and what 
the future course of Donald Belt would be when his daughter was 
married and living in a foreign country. 

“ What an abominable thing it is to throw away that girl on a 
beggarly Italian officer!” exclaimed William St. Nicholas, with sud- 
den vehemence. 

“ Bless me!” ejaculated his father. 

“Yes; a beggarly foreigner,” echoed Willy, the younger, in a 
grumbling tone. 

The count had again cast in shadow the otherwise brilliant social 
qualities of Sam Hardinge and Willy, and the grievance rankled in 
the bosoms of these popular young gentlemen. 

They had entered the library, where the fire invited them to lin- 
ger, for they were an unusually sympathetic household in the mat- 
ter of outspoken thought, and the discussion of the affairs of their 
world. The ruddy glow of firelight warmed the dark maroon hang- 
ings, and gleamed on the ponderous portraits the descendant liked 
to ascribe to Sir Peter Lely. A jasmine pipe, with amber mouth- 
piece, once belonging to a stadtholder of Holland, was suspended 
above the chimneypiece. A chair of oak, with arms terminating in 
eagles’ claws, held the place of honor in a corner. An Egyptian 
bronze of the god Ptah, with hair and beard inlaid with niello 
work, and the sacred collar decorated with gold and enamel, stood 
on a pedestal in the window. Cabinets and glass-cases, containing 
Greek and Roman coins, agates, and amulets, were scattered about, 
inviting leisurely inspection. The books, a trifle worn from friendly 
use, presented a marked contrast to the sumptuous and unsullied ele- 
gance of the volumes ranged on the shelves of Donald Belt’s library. 

Mrs. Monteith regarded her brother and her son with a satirical 
expression. Her own face was sallow and fatigued. She once more 
had recourse to her vinaigrette. 

“ Poor Baron Kalb complained of the jealousy of Americans to 
foreigners in his day,” she said, loftily. “ The count has eclipsed 
everybody. I saw that all was over at Niagara. In papa’s time he 
could not have gained the goal so easily, but now there is no one to 
prevent him.” 

William St. Nicholas smiled. 

“ My dear Alice, you are complimentary to your contemporaries,” 
he said. 

“ If my contemporaries took the trouble to hold their own ground 
I should not be contemptuous,” she replied. Then she added, with 
a little outburst of feminine spite, “You are both jealous of the 
Count Della Stella.” 


8 


114 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ Jealous! What of, mamma?” cried Willy, indignantly. 

“ I jealous?” said William St. Nicholas, aghast at the imputation. 
“ I care nothing for the count or for Camilla.” He paused abrupt- 
ly and bit his lip. 

“ The idea!” blustered Willy, the younger. 

“Mamma has the headache, my lad,” explained the uncle, in a 
tone of forbearance. “ Good-night.” 

“Good-night,” added Willy, the younger, with his nose in the 
air, and followed his uncle. 

The petted child felt that his mother deserved no kiss on the oc- 
casion. 

Mrs. Monteith smiled a wan and peevish smile at the fire. Irri- 
tated herself, she had succeeded in disturbing two other people. 
The visitor to menagerie or zoological garden may observe the 
same mood in the animal kingdom, whether lady tiger blinking in 
the sun and snarling at the well-meant greeting of a neighbor, or 
surly hippopotamus intent on arousing brother hippopotami from 
a nap on the border of a muddy pond, or golden pheasant pecking 
at a mild and dowdy little brown mate. 

Mr. St. Nicholas stood before the fire in a thoughtful attitude. 

“ Alice, do you mean to infer that our William had any sort of 
liking for — ” 

“ There is no use in inferring anything now, sir,” she interposed, 
risiug from her chair and kissing her father. 

“Humph! The fortune is ten millions,” soliloquized Mr. St. 
Nicholas. 

A few minutes later Willy Monteith thrust his curly head into the 
door of his mother’s dressing-room, actuated by filial affection and 
intense curiosity. 

“ Mamma, Camilla Belt is an awfully nice girl,” he asserted, ad- 
vancing on tiptoe. 

“Ah?” queried Mrs. Monteith, still unrelenting in attitude, and 
rejoicing in an excuse for coldness. 

“You noticed how he flew out when the count was mentioned?” 
pursued the son, fun brimming over in his saucy blue eyes at the 
recollection. “Do you think Uncle Willy would have married 
her if the foreigner had not interfered? Say, mamma?” 

“Hush!” Mrs. Monteith placed her hand on his lips, but she 
bade him good-night more tenderly than she had intended doing. 

“All the same, such things should not be allowed,” said the 
young patriot, drawing himself up to his full height, and knitting 
his brows in a stern and menacing fashion. 

His mother drew her finger, playfully, across his upper lip. 

“ When you can boast such a superb mustache as the 


TULIP PLACE. 


115 


count’s you may hope to hold your own,” she said. “Now go to 
bed.” 

Once alone, William St. Nicholas yielded to a fit of ill-temper. 
He flung the old violin across the room, and it fell, neglected, in a 
corner. Then he tore up the score of the operetta of the birthday, 
already well advanced in composition, after which he dropped the 
little book of pink plush sent to him by Camilla, on the eighteenth 
of December, into the fire, and watched it consume among the 
coals with a savage satisfaction. He was dissatisfied with every- 
thing. He despised the paltry ambitions and aspirations of all the 
world, his own included. 

A girl whom he did not know, and whose acquaintance had never 
seemed especially desirable, had just held before his startled eyes a 
mirror reflecting himself. In the fulness of her contentment she 
had demanded of him what his own lot contained, and what his 
future promised. Happiness, when analyzed, vanishes. He held 
nothing. He sat beside the hearth and gazed at the crumbling 
ashes of the birthday gift as blankly as the spirit in limbo, whose 
plaint found an echo in his breast: 

“ In dreams I walked by Lethe on this side ; 

There where souls taste not yet the sleepy flood, 

Nor in oblivion drink beatitude ; 

But roam and dote on memory, as they died. 

Each man, alone unto himself, wide-eyed, 

Inwardly gazing in abstracted mood, 

Went by the waves ; and all that multitude 
Seemed in my dreaming thought unsatisfied. 

Some too there were whose longing, like a crown 
Of leaden anguish, weighed on weary brows, 

Who murmured in delirium : Down, down, down ! 

We lived not, for we loved not ! Dreams are we ! 

Death shuns us, who shunned life ! What hell shall rouse 
Blank souls from blurred insensibility ?” 

Tulip Place awaited the dawn, in gray shadow. 

Tulip Place held in the darkness elements of strife, resistance, 
and passive acquiescence to the existing order of things, for, truly, in 
every life, however uneventful, there is a St. Helena as well as a 
field of Waterloo, 


CHAPTER X. 

THE COUNT’S MUSTACHE. 

“ The darling of the court , 

Loved of the loveliest .” — “ Lancelot and Elaine.” 

One month later the event occurred which was never to be for- 
gotten as long as the Belt mansion stood, and Tulip Place could be 
designated as a street. Lapse of time might embellish the recital, as 
the wagging of many tongues is apt to do, but the incident, whether 
accepted as comedy or tragedy, lost nothing as it receded with the 
years, just as an object when beheld through a telescope becomes 
more distinct in detachment from immediate surroundings. 

Count Della Stella had awakened on his wedding-day with such 
pleasurable and triumphant reflections as a man of emotional tem- 
perament would be likely to indulge in under the circumstances. 
He had gained the love he sought, and was happy. It is to be 
feared that his interest in American institutions, other than the ju- 
dicious investment of property, was exceedingly moderate, while the 
page of history he had set himself to learn was the Belt household, 
with special reference to Camilla. 

Thus far all had gone well with him, and he could now place en- 
tire confidence in the devotion he had succeeded in inspiring in the 
object of his choice. He had made Camilla love him, employing all 
those gentle arts of wooing in which he was an adept, and laying 
siege to her affections in the school of Petrarch and Boccaccio, a 
code forever new to fresh experience. 

The halcyon brooding on her nest, rocked on the azure wave, so 
familiar in the frescoed design of the palace halls, was the compari- 
son with his own estate that recurred to his mind on this memo- 
rable occasion. 

Had he been questioned by some grim spectre of misfortune, at 
the moment, as to the security of his position, he would have re- 
plied, smilingly, that he had plumbed the character of father and 
stepmother, while Camilla was prepared to do his lightest bidding. 

In this agreeable country, sought by him in guise of a modern 
Columbus, the tedious details of civil and religious rites, so irksome in 
other lands, were obviated. The count lapsed from puzzled increduli- 


TULIP PLACE. 


117 


ty to exhilaration when he realized that the nuptial knot could have 
bound Camilla to him with very few formalities, indeed, had the lady 
been minded to espouse him in opposition to the prejudices of her 
friends. The circumstances not warranting such elopement, the 
wedding was to take place at the house of Donald Belt, with a Prot- 
estant service, as a compromise between the differences of faith of 
the participants. Donald Belt was unwilling to give away his 
daughter in a Roman Catholic cathedral, while the count cherished 
the slightest possible reluctance to a similar ceremony in the neigh- 
boring church of St. Jerome; hence the noonday marriage at the 
house, to be followed by a breakfast and reception, and the depart- 
ure of bride and bridegroom for Washington, previous to a speedy 
return to Europe. 

The count slept late that morning, for, according to his creed, 
time is made for slaves. When he had risen he drank a glass of 
cold water and a cup of black coffee. He next smoked a cigarette, 
and, singing a favorite aria, opened the shutters of the window, in 
order to inspect himself in the gilded mirror of the hotel chamber. 
He scanned his reflected image with a care very unusual in mankind 
in general. The wisdom of Solomon would have been wholly at 
fault, as regarded this prospective bridegroom, for he never forgot 
his own face, or the manner of man he was, in turning away from 
the looking-glass. It would be impossible to exaggerate the value 
he attached to his personal appearance on this auspicious day. He 
surveyed himself anxiously, critically, in the mirror, as if he feared 
the advent of wrinkles and blemishes during sleep, such as might 
mar the smoothness of his check, but the day revealed only the 
usual fair and smiling exterior, and he was reassured. 

He gave his mustache a vigorous and jaunty twist, and, in mov- 
ing his elbow, dislodged several canes, which, in falling, struck the 
mirror with their handles of metal and ivory. The glass cracked. 
The count made a grimace. 

“ That is unlucky,” he meditated, without being too much daunt- 
ed by the incident. “ Una disgrazia non vieu mai sola.” 

The conspicuous casement of a barber across the street attracted 
his attention. 

“ It is true,” he said aloud, as if in response to the invitation ten- 
dered, and passed his hand across his chin. “ I must be freshly 
shaved before my breakfast. ” 

Now the Count Della Stella, actuated by commendable motives of 
economy, had brought no servant with him to America, a thrifti- 
ness which promised, in the present instance, to fulfil the old warn- 
ing concerning penny wisdom and pound folly. In military service 
he relied upon a faithful orderly, while in foreign lands the attend- 


118 


TULIP PLACE. 


ance of hotel menials could very well suffice for his simple require- 
ments. The clerk of the modern caravansary where he lodged dur- 
ing his sojourn in New York was known to have subsequently ex- 
pressed surprise at the length of his title and the splendor of pedigree 
in a guest of such unobtrusive bearing. Caution of the Machiavel- 
lian type led him to take no one into his confidence. 

The count did not summon the barber to him, but sought the bar- 
ber, as had been his custom since his arrival. 

The barber was a stout person, of much self-esteem, and enjoying 
a large connection. His head was as bald as a billiard-ball, while 
the lustrous blackness of his whiskers suggested the frequent appli- 
cation of one of the coloring mixtures in the showcase, highly ex- 
tolled by means of attendant placards. At first the chief had be- 
stowed his personal skill on the foreigner, induced by curiosity and 
professional vanity, but finding the customer uncommunicative, 
owing to the lather of soap in process of application, and an imper- 
fect knowledge of the English language, he had turned the count 
over to minions no less proficient than himself. 

To-day Destiny, in the form of a nimble young man, with a pair 
of light gray eyes as keen as the razors he was capable of wielding, 
hovered near the door and ushered in the customer. Destiny seated 
the hapless victim in a reclining-chair, swathed him in linen, applied 
the foaming lather, and passed the gleaming steel across his face. 

The count winked, coughed, and struggled to an erect position. 

“What you have done?” he stammered with difficulty, as a fatal 
suspicion flashed through his mind. 

“Done?” repeated the nimble assistant, coolly wiping the razor, 
as a Pagan priest might w T het the knife for fresh sacrifice, and, at 
the same time elevating his voice to be more clearly understood. 
“No; I’m not quite done, sir. The other side is — ” 

The sentence remained unfinished, for the count, thrusting aside 
the arm held over him, sprang to his feet, wrenched a glass from the 
hand of the proprietor, and looked at himself. His mustache was 
gone. There could be no doubt of the dread catastrophe. The too 
zealous offender had swept the face of the count clean of every hair 
with the celerity of lightning. And this was his wedding-day ! 

The nobleman grew deadly white, then green and yellow ; a 
change of complexion boding no good to an adversary, under ordi- 
nary circumstances. The present dilemma was a very extraordi- 
nary one, indeed. The victim of a blunder dashed the mirror on 
the floor, flung himself on the delinquent, and administered a kick, 
with a foot accustomed to having attached a jingling spur. 

“ What do you mean by that?” ejaculated the astonished and bewil- 
dered culprit, recoiling, and placing himself in an attitude of defence. 


TULIP PLACE. 


119 


“Look out there!” cried the* proprietor, hustling to the rescue. 

“You have cut off my mustache, miscreant!” shrieked the count, 
glaring in impotent fury at his adversary. 

“You didn’t tell me not to cut it off,” protested the assistant, 
flushed and indignant, in turn. “His very words were ‘shave me 
entire.’ That’s what he said, anyhow,” with an appealing glance 
around the saloon, as if in search of justice. 

The entire establishment had been startled by the incident. 
Other assistants came skurrying forward, brandishing curling-irons 
and various implements of their craft, while more than one Good 
Samaritan of a customer hastened after, in different stages of the 
toilet, hair bristling on end from the hands of the shampooer, or 
half clipped in the interests of a military tonsure. 

“A foreigner, eh? Shaved his mustache by mistake. Too 
bad! A man don’t like to lose his mustache. Know how it is 
yourself.” 

“Look here, Tompkins, your fellows should be better trained, 
you know; and a foreigner, too.” 

Tompkins bowed, and waved the razor he held in a deprecatory 
manner. 

“I’m very sorry, sir. Such a thing never happened before, and 
I’d rather give twenty dollars than to have it happen now, in this 
’ere establishment. I’m sure, if anything can be done — ” 

For the first time since his arrival at New York, the Count Della 
Stella asserted his dignity, in public. He wrenched the linen towel 
from about his neck, and flung it at the barber, in silent contempt ; 
an insult which aroused the ire of Mr. Tompkins, as a free-born 
citizen, and necessitated the interference of the beclipped and 
shampooed ones to soothe and restrain him, in turn. 

“ There! There! Keep your temper, Tompkins,” admonished a 
tall man, whose auburn locks surrounded his countenance in eccen- 
tric spikes, much oiled, and, as yet, unsubdued by the mollifying 
influence of brush and comb. 

“Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for afterwards, Tompkins,” 
added a little man, whose chin presented a curiously diversified 
surface of black stubble and snowy lather of shaving-soap. 

A third individual, having one side of his head adorned with a 
profusion of frizzled curls, and the other limp and straight, placed 
himself before the count in such a way as to screen the resentful 
barber, and addressed him in the German of Heidelberg. 

The count stared coldly at this mediator a moment, and then re- 
verted to the assistant with eyes that launched flames. 

“I do not kill you, but I will seek justice,” he said, in a low and 
hissing tone. 


120 


TULIP PLACE. 


He left the place, with a parting salutation to the group gathered 
about him as dignified as it was haughty. 

“It’s a good thing he hadn’t a poniard handy,” said the Ger- 
man scholar. 

“Yes. Those Italians and Spaniards are perfect volcanoes when 
they get mad,” echoed the tall man. 

There was a murmur of assent among the customers, many of 
whom carried toy revolvers in their pockets at the moment. 

The barber recovered himself, albeit with a visage still empurpled. 

“I don’t want his money,” he announced, ruminatingly; then 
added : “Jeremiah Wilkins, you can take yourself to fields and 
pastures new about as quick — ” 

“I’m a -going right away,” interrupted the assistant, sturdily. 
“If folks here can’t give their orders in nothin* better than heathen 
Chinee I’ll look out for another situation. ” 

The count darted across the street to the hotel once more. The 
clerk stood in the entrance, surveying the world with the composure 
inherent in his class. He stared at the count, and inquired, blandly, 

“ Wish to call on some one in our house, sir?” 

The count recoiled a step, stupefied by this fresh blow of mis- 
fortune. No recognition of his shaven countenance was discernible 
in the hard blue eyes of the clerk. Crestfallen, the lodger revealed 
his identity, only to be subsequently waylaid by a vigilant bell-boy 
and a suspicious Alsatian waiter, on the way to his room. The Al- 
satian waiter made a pantomimic gesture Jbehind his back, expres- 
sive of derision, and the bell-boy grinned. 

Once in his own chamber, the count approached the cracked 
mirror, and inspected his image, wrathfully. No ; he would not 
have recognized himself. Was that long and dark face, disfigured 
by passion, the very features pinched by the emotion of the hour, 
the fair and smiling one of Azzolino Della Stella? Any man might 
have looked sombre, and even ferocious, under existing circum- 
stances. Alas! A thin, scarlet line of scar on the upper lip added 
positive ugliness. He was hideous ! He decided, in swift despe- 
ration, that any bride would consider him repulsive. 

He consulted his watch, with haggard eyes. In one hour the 
wedding ceremony was to take place. What was to be done? 
Ready suspicion detected in the barber’s assistant the hired tool of 
base conspiracy. How could he confront all these strangers with a 
scarred face? He did not fear Camilla, but he shrank from the 
public scrutiny and criticism. In one hour he was to be married! 

In Tulip Place Donald Belt went about inspecting the arrange- 
ment of the rooms, his brow clouded, his step slow, and yet he ex- 
perienced a certain satisfaction in the result 


TULIP PLACE. 


121 


Daylight had been admitted through the curtains, with the excep- 
tion of the small boudoir, where the bride elected to be married. 
She had rendered this room as much as possible like a chapel, by 
means of tapestry, and an improvised altar at one extremity, where 
a profusion of tapers already twinkled in gilded candelabra. The 
monogram of the wedded pair, designed in white camellias, starred 
the rich draperies at intervals, while a fine copy of a Botticelli 
Madonna hung above the altar, between silver lamps. 

Donald Belt glanced into this shrine through columns of snowy 
flowers, the capitals formed of budding sprays, and thence his eye 
reverted to the suite of apartments, all glistening with gilt and 
mosaic, where the roses and lilies ran riot in festoons, screens, and 
pyramids, interspersed with African palms. The ceiling of the 
main reception-room held, in pendulous form, a chime of floral 
wedding-bells. 

A little incense is needed to make it complete,” he said aloud. 

“I think one of the large parlors would have been better for the 
ceremony,” said Mrs. Belt. 

He glanced at his wife critically, and once more the expression 
of unwilling gratification swept over his massive features. His 
wife was a credit to him, an ornament to the spacious mansion, and 
he was satisfied. 

Mrs. Belt was attired in white velvet, with a train of silver bro- 
cade. When she moved, whether in the shadow of the great palm 
masses, the twinkle of the tapers, the light of day, some beam smote 
sparks of intense brilliancy from the rays of diamonds clustered 
in her hair in the form of butterflies, hovering on her shoulder and 
breast, and thence gleaming over her draperies. 

Yes, the hostess, radiant and proud on this day of Camilla’s 
marriage, was creditable to the taste of her husband. He refrained 
from telling her as much by word or look. He was not demonstra- 
tive by nature. 

“A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home.” 

The master of the house made a final tour of the dining-room, 
and gave an order to the servants. If Camilla must marry the 
foreigner, her wedding-breakfast should be a memorable event. 

There was something curiously suggestive of waiting in the fairy 
palace, about the feast prepared, of which even the practical soul of 
Donald Belt may have been aware. A swan of white roses rested 
on a cushion of purple pansies, before the seat of the bridal couple ; 
silver and crystal sparkled with a frosty gleam. Soon the murmur 
of many voices would mingle about the table, wine stain the deli- 
cate bubbles of glass, the elaborate temples of sugar and pastry be 
crushed by expectant consumers, moulded cream and jelly lose 


m 


TULIP PLACE. 


form. In the interval the expectant, waiting aspect of the wedding 
banquet was strange. Donald Belt passed his hand across his brow, 
and ascribed the doubt to his own dissatisfaction at the union. His 
equanimity was restored by the thought that the cost of the ban- 
quet would find mention in sundry journals. 

Mrs. Belt, undisturbed by similar reflections, admired the bridal 
gifts, the vases, bronzes, gold and silver ware, jewelry, and enamels 
suitable to the occasion. Conspicuous amidst the modern luxury 
were the historical fan, and a small case, surmounted by a coronet, 
containing pearls, the present of a German sovereign to a knight of 
the Della Stella. 

Guests began to arrive, and foremost among the number was 
Mrs. Monteith. The lady leaned on the arm of her father, and was 
closely followed by her brother and son. A kindred spark of ex- 
citement and curiosity glowed in the bosom of each member of the 
St. Nicholas family. Mr. St. Nicholas was intent on criticising his 
neighbor. William St. Nicholas was alternately satirical, boister- 
ous, and silent. Willy the younger evinced his usual good spirits. 
Mrs. Monteith had recovered animation, and was stately in her cos- 
tume of black satin, with petticoat of Persian lilac satin, fringed 
with gold flowers. 

The clergyman waited in the library.. 

Above-stairs a bevy of bridesmaids, resembling soft clouds of 
cream-colored silks and tulle veils, were gathered in a group, each 
carrying a little basket of golden filigree, filled with yellow roses, 
and an ivory fan, mounted with point lace. Near them stood Ca- 
milla’s page, the son of Mrs. Southby, a pretty boy of eight years, 
with blond curls, attired in a suit of ruby velvet, of the period of 
George II., with embroidered waistcoat and three-cornered hat. 
This precocious child reaped extended popularity for his part in 
the ceremonies of the day, as his mother’s friends were never weary 
of hearing him repeat the most minute particulars of the events 
transpiring above and below stairs in the Belt mansion. 

The bride had not yet quitted her dressing-room, where skilful 
hands had spread about her the traditional folds of shimmering 
white satin, wrought with lace and pearl, and enveloped her in the 
traditional Brussels point veil. 

A very composed and assured bride, this, prepared to bravely 
undergo the ordeal of ceremony before her. Little Mademoiselle 
Aimee, in soft white raiment, and rosebuds, hovered near, wistful, 
pale, and silent. 

“You must not look sad, ma mie” said Camilla, as sprays of 
orange-blossoms were attached to her corsage and hair. “I shall 
keep you with me, always.” 


TULIP PLACE. 


m 


“Yes, Miss Belt,” the little Aimee meekly acquiesced, hut there 
was no enthusiasm in her tone. 

Camilla surveyed her own splendor, as reflected in the mirrors, 
with satisfaction. Here was the very pride of life, accompanying 
robust health and high spirits, and no modest, trembling maiden, 
drooping shyly beneath the weight of her bridal crown. A feather 
of brilliants held Camilla’s veil attached to the orange-blossoms, 
stones of the purest water encircled her throat, bracelets of pearls 
clasped her wrists. She scanned her own face without flinching. 
She had chosen her own path, and must follow it to the end. All 
preparation had been completed. There was no flutter of feminine 
doubt, haste, and confusion perceptible in her manner. The going- 
away costume was visible through an open door, placed on a form 
to display the golden-brown brocade and velvet, with sable margin. 
The bride pursued : 

“I intended to do so many things, this winter,” adjusting the 
pendant of diamonds and pearls at her own throat. “This was to 
have been my season, Aimee. I was going to get up a fair, which 
should have been a market, with all the ladies in peasant costume, 
and seated under red umbrellas. Then I meant to start a perfect 
rage for private theatricals. We could have organized an amateur 
dramatic company, and played in the theatre of the Meerschaum 
Club, for some charity. See what it is to marry a foreign soldier, 
Aimee, and be carried off beyond the ocean !” 

Aimee glanced at her wayward patroness, with eyebrows slightly 
elevated. Camilla’s matter-of-fact tone, at such a moment, shocked 
and amazed her. She seemed to breathe once more the scent of 
flowers on the window-ledge of the haute cite of Geneva, gray and 
peaceful, after the hot disputes of long-dead philosophers and theo- 
logians, and a sentiment of homesickness oppressed her. 

Another wedding recurred to her memory, that of her school 
friend Rosalie, and the young professor from Zurich, of German 
origin, with straight brown hair and spectacles. One of the small- 
er hotels of the town had been invaded for the wedding-dinner, 
where the P&re Heroart presided, as host, with a rubicund counte- 
nance, and wearing a white waistcoat. Later the bridesmaids and 
youth danced to the music of a cracked piano. Rosalie had wept 
beneath her veil of tulle, and the matrons, in their gowns of good 
black silk, had wiped their eyes as well, seated on benches against 
the wall. The porters, wearing green aprons, had added an arch of 
evergreen to the entrance, as a fitting tribute to sentiment, and even 
the cook, in his white cap, had peered through a door to obtain a 
glimpse of the bride, while the femme-de-chambre of each Stage was 
in a flutter of excitement, snatching a brief reprieve from the fresh- 


124 


TULIP PLACE. 


linen and hot -water serving of duty, in the rapt contemplation of 
orange blossoms. 

Here was a bridal, conventional and pleasing, within the ken of 
little Aimee. 

“I am ready,” announced Camilla, in a firm and clear tone. 
“We must not tax too severely the patience of the good people 
waiting.” 

She joined her bridesmaids, who surrounded her with greetings 
and congratulations. 

The little page strutted forward, conscious of his dignity, and 
received a kiss from the bride. 

“We mustn’t go down yet,” piped the page, with an eye on Ca- 
milla’s train. 

“Why, my dear?” 

“The bridegroom hasn’t come,” retorted the enfant terrible. 
“ He’s quarter of an hour late, already. Mr. Belt says so.” 

Camilla smiled. 

“Poor count! He has not our dreadful American ideas of punc- 
tual^,” she said. 

Her lips grew dry. The bridesmaids, embarrassed, toyed with 
the roses in their gilded baskets, and unfurled their exquisite fans. 
Mademoiselle Aimee clasped her hands together, in a nervous and 
involuntary gesture of apprehension. Camilla looked at the faces 
of her companions, and her own hardened. A clock struck a sil- 
very chime, and arrested her attention. The quarter mentioned by 
the child was, in reality, half an hour. A man lived on the earth 
capable of being half an hour late at his wedding with her, Camilla 
Belt. All the latent egotism of her own nature rose in arms at the 
mere suggestion. She was no longer smiling and calm, her features 
became set. 

“ Come,” she said, at length, “let us go down-stairs.” 

The bridesmaids coughed, faltered, and held back. The little 
page stood firmly on his legs before her, holding his cocked hat in 
his hand. 

“ No. Mr. Belt said we were to wait here, and not show ourselves 
too soon,” he protested, earnestly. “I heard two of the ushers, on 
the stairs, say that p’raps he wouldn’t come at all.” 

“Ah!” was Camilla’s mechanical comment. 

“What a fearful child you are for telling fibs, Charley,” exclaimed 
the first bridesmaid, taking him by the arm, and shaking him. 

But the little page withdrew his arm and would not be silenced. 
His precocious vanity was flattered by the post assigned him, and 
by wearing the beautiful doublet of ruby velvet, in which his photo- 
graph was to be taken after the ceremony. 


TULIP PLACE. 


125 


“They called it a lark,” he hurst out, irrepressibly. “What’s 
the good of dressing-up, then?” 

A moment of chilling silence ensued, when the hum of voices be- 
low-stairs became louder. Camilla said, very gently, 

“My dear little boy, I am going down-stairs. You may carry 
my train, or not, as you please.” 

“All right,” chirped the page, and made a plunge after the heavy 
draperies of satin. 

The bridesmaids followed, stealing furtive glances at each 
other. 

A vision of laces, flowers, and sparkling gems dazzled those in the 
vicinity of the great stairway, and then vanished into the temporary 
seclusion of a distant room. The bride had appeared. Where was 
the groom? 

The Count Della Stella, crushed by the true misfortune that had 
befallen him, remained inactive, mute, paralyzed. The tide of pas- 
sion which had surged to his brain, and imperilled the life of the as- 
sistant barber, had ebbed back to his heart. He bitterly regretted 
the absence of a confidential friend, or a servant, whose services 
would have been invaluable in such an emergency. His outraged 
vanity and smarting dignity had not permitted him to cherish for a 
moment the idea of evading the day’s ceremonial, or of being a 
second late in presenting himself at the mansion of his intended 
bride. There were too many interests at stake. Better appear 
shaven, bald, disfigured before all those enemies, the mocking wed- 
ding-guests, than yield his precedence to some eager usurper. Ex- 
pedients came to his mind, with all the brilliancy of inspiration, dur- 
ing the precious interval of time remaining to him. W T ould Camilla 
fail to recognize him, as the stupid minions of the hotel had done? 
His brow grew damp at the very suggestion. 

He again sought the mirror, and gazed with horror at his altered 
visage, nor did the consolatory thought that his mustache would 
have opportunity to grow again during the honeymoon reassure his 
dejected spirit. 

He rang the bell and sought counsel of the Alsatian waiter, a 
high-shouldered man, with a peaked countenance devoid of beard, 
and flaxen hair which grew in a topknot above a narrow forehead. 
The count explained the situation with pathetic volubility, and the 
sympathies of the Alsatian were quickened by a liberal fee slipped 
into his palm. 

The result of their mutual deliberations was that Mercury sped 
away in search of a selection of false mustaches, to be obtained in a 
certain locality familiar to him. 

Left aloue, the bridegroom made his toilet with a feverish agita- 


126 


TULIP PLACE. 


tion in marked contrast with the tranquillity of the bride. The 
stratagem pleased him. A secure confidence in the absolute devo- 
tion of Camilla was the anchor to which he held. 

Ah, Christopher Columbus, wisest and most courageous of naviga- 
tors! How about the shifting of the helm, the current of bafiling 
winds, the turning of the tide? 

The Alsatian waiter returned, in a breathless condition, with a box 
under his arm. 

The count raised the lid with trembling fingers, and discovered 
several red, a black, and a gray mustache. 

“ Mon Dieu ! It is the wrong box!” gasped Mercury, in conster- 
nation. 

The count held to his lip, first the black, and then a red mus- 
tache, with such startling result that he realized his own mother 
would not have known him. The rumor might circulate that he 
was an impostor; the bride shriek and faint at the very sight of him. 
Even now success was in his grasp, and he knew it. In an enemy’s 
country his fate hung on a hair. The crisis necessitated confronting 
the situation coolly and philosophically. Personal vanity whis- 
pered, 

“ Send the Alsatian back to the costumer, with a clipping of brown 
hair, for a pattern.” 

He listened to the tempter, and he fell. 

The Alsatian departed with haste, fingering a fresh fee, for the 
emergency necessitated lavish expenditure of money, and adroitly 
glided down the back stairs, in evasion of the proprietor, only to fall 
into the clutches of the ubiquitous clerk, at a side door. The clerk, 
sternly discrediting Mercury’s explanations, dragged him before the 
bar of justice. What did the Alsatian mean by slipping out of the 
house at that hour? It was not until the contents of the box had 
been investigated that he was permitted to depart, with a burst of 
laughter on the part of landlord and clerk. 

Had the Count Della Stella reposed confidence in the hotel, in this 
emergency, the hotel would have aided him, to a man, and this faith- 
ful narration need not have been written. The accident had been too 
sudden for him to manipulate the material of human nature about him. 

Precious moments passed, and the gentleman paced the floor, a 
prey to indecision, and determined resolve not to wait longer, lis- 
tening to every footfall, and, in his weakness, ever granting the mes- 
senger a reprieve of five more minutes. 

At length the Alsatian reappeared, triumphant, if exhausted, and 
exhibited a choice selection of brown mustaches. The count seized 
the first one, and attached it to his lip by means of the gummed sur- 
face, Ah, at last! The looking-glass reflected his former self, the 


TULIP PLACE. 


12? 


silky appendage more bristling and crinkly, perhaps, yet martial in 
curl. He descended to the attendant carriage just as one of the Belt 
servants reached the hotel, and gleaned the interesting particulars 
of the mishap from the Alsatian. 

Seated in the carriage the count drew, forth a pocket-mirror, and 
did not cease from contemplating himself during the drive. It was 
true he was an hour late, but his presence, however tardy, would 
atone for all delay. 

The equipage reached the corner of Tulip Place, when the bride- 
groom had the misfortune to sneeze, and one half of the mustache 
fell off. He groped on the floor of the vehicle for the missing frag- 
ment, found, and replaced it. In vain! The woven mesh had lost 
the slight element of adhesiveness which previously retained it. The 
count flushed crimson with anger and alarm, and heroically pre- 
pared to sacrifice the whole false emblem of former beauty. He 
sought to detach the remaining half, and without success, for the 
more he wrenched and tugged at it the more closely it clung to his 
lip. He saw the gate of paradise open before him, and inviting him 
to enter. How could he enter with the half of a false mustache on 
his face? He would be shunned as a lunatic. No one would listen 
to his tale of woe. “II faut reculer d’un pas pour mieux sauter,” he 
muttered, and, shielding his face with his pocket-handkerchief, he 
managed to make the coachman understand that he wished to re- 
turn to the hotel. Such was the frantic energy of his gesture, and 
the appeal visible in the eyes peering above the handkerchief, that 
the coachman wheeled about, applied whip to the horses, and rattled 
away at the utmost speed. 

The hotel regained, the count rushed to his chamber and the 
cracked mirror, where the fragment of mustache had just come off, 
in his fingers, yielding to an effort which brought the water to his 
eyes, when a peremptory rap on the door was followed by the en- 
trance of Donald Belt. 

‘ ‘ Are you aware, sir, that you have been expected for an hour 
and a half?” he demanded, abruptly. 

The count smiled a sickly smile. 

“A thousand pardons!’ he said, apologetically. “Am I, then, 
so late?” 

The two men confronted and measured each other. 

“ If Camilla could only see this cocksparrow of her choice with 
my eyes,” thought the father. “She shall be made to see him. 
Why, the fellow has lost his mustache.” 

The torrent of indignant protest was checked on his lips, and a 
gleam of humor appeared in his eyes. 

“lam ready, now,” added the count, speaking with an effort, and 


128 


TULIP PLACE. 


having the crestfallen mien of a gorgeous tropical bird when robbed 
of its lawful rainbow plumage. 

‘ ‘ I think we had better defer the matter until another day, ” re- 
plied Donald Belt, with an unmistakable ring of triumph in his tone. 

During this ordeal of suspense, in waiting, the Belt mansion had 
been filled with the murmur of conversation. Each guest en- 
deavored to appear at ease, and as if nothing had occurred of an un- 
usual character. 

In the distant apartment whither the bridal party had withdrawn 
Mademoiselle Aimee decorously turned the leaves of an album of 
aquarelles for the inspection of the bridesmaids, who discussed the 
merits of the respective drawings with the more eagerness because 
they saw none of them. The little page had waxed cross, until he 
discovered a music-box in the corner, imprisoned in a church, which 
he was doing his best to investigate and destroy. 

Camilla stood at a window, with her back turned to her compan- 
ions, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Already a long time seemed to 
have elapsed since she was decked for the bridal, and the weight of the 
ornaments in her hair hurt her brain. She saw the St. Nicholas 
house from the casement. From time to time the thin and shrivelled 
profile of old Mrs. St. Nicholas appeared at the window of her morn- 
ing-room, like a fate. 

Every carriage that rolled over the pavement set her pulses throb- 
bing afresh. Surely the recreant bridegroom had arrived, and her 
anger must be controlled to meet him. When the carriage passed 
on, and the summons did not come, now dreaded by her strained 
senses, she breathed once more with a sentiment of relief. 

Finally the cold silence was broken by the rustle of a rich dress. 
Mrs. Belt entered, pale and agitated, and the bridesmaids shrank 
back, and held aloof. She approached the rigid figure of the bride. 

“Camilla!” deprecatingly. 

“Well! Has he come?” was the dry response. 

“ No, my dear. Oh, Camilla, he cannot come! I fear — ” 

Camilla extended her hand, and closed her eyes a moment, to 
steady her nerves. 

“Wait! I know what you wish to say. I can bear it. He is dead.” 

“ No, no! Some accident has happened to the count. I do not 
understand it all, yet, but it is not death, my dear. He is safe.” 

Mrs. Belt strove to encircle her stepdaughter with her arms, fear- 
ing faintness, but Camilla shook her off. 

“ If he is not dead I will never forgive him,” she cried, in a hoarse 
and altered voice. 

The little page yawned. “ I thought there were to be lots of bon- 
bons,” he remarked, kicking a footstool, discontentedly. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE JEST OF THE TOWN. 

“ The . folly of all follies 

Is to be lovesick for a shadow — “Queen Mary.” 

There are moments in all lives when, in the troubled dreams of 
a fevered brain, the sleeper is forced to perform some untried part 
on a stage full of lurking pitfalls, and watched by countless un- 
pitying eyes. The shadows gather and threaten, the lights waver, 
the spectators are silent, menacing, rising rank behind rank in some 
limitless amphitheatre, while the tongue declaims, goading the dream- 
er to fresh effort and fresh failure. 

Camilla Belt had experienced similar emotions as she stood at the 
window awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom. She was the one 
unarmed among the indifferent throng. She was the one unmasked, 
with the doubt, anger, and humiliation plainly discernible on her 
features, wdiere all wore the smiling mask of society. Incensed by 
the delay, first hinted at by the prattling little page, pride would 
have led her to perform her part in the ceremonial of the day had 
the count arrived within the hour. Evasion in escape had come to 
her mind, after that lapse of waiting. She had been insulted before 
her world, and would be held up to public ridicule henceforth, 
as the victim of an absurd trick, some hesitation of a suitor who 
dared not marry her, hampered by other ties, and therefore with- 
drew. 

When the stepmother had broken the tidings that Donald Belt 
had gone, personally, to learn the truth, the servant having returned 
with a perplexing account of the circumstances, discredited by the 
family, Camilla had resolutely withdrawn to her own rooms, clos- 
ing the door on all intruders. Her eyes were hot, her lips dry and 
parched, a tumult of angry blood hummed in her ears, and surged to 
her brain. Her superb dress and veil added their weight to an insup- 
portable situation. An impulsive rather than passive temperament, 
even in trouble, she unfastened the jewels, scattered the flowers, and, 
divesting herself of the satin robe, flung it in a heap on the floor. 
She contemplated the confused mass of finery with stupefaction, 
and a certain element of fright, swift and cold. What should she 

9 


130 


TULIP PLACE. 


have been had she still worn these things? A lie! A living lie, to 
herself and to others ! 

Possibly the tragedy of the act, the renunciation of her bridal 
emblems, stimulated the revolt in her breast. The casting aside of the 
lace and flowers was a gage of defiance to the Count Della Stella that 
might well make him tremble for his cause. Never would she con- 
sent to assume them again for his sake. He was not dead, stricken 
inanimate, and yet he had failed to keep his word. The haste with 
which she thrust away her splendid apparel evinced a fear of waver- 
ing in any weakness of indecision. The misfortune that might have 
befallen him did not touch or even interest her, softening, even in 
baseless conjecture, the stony hardness of her bitter wrath and re- 
sentment. All magnanimity of forgiveness was very remote from 
her mood, just then. The Count Della Stella had passed out of her 
life. 

The familiar objects about her remained unchanged. Why did 
they acquire a new value in her eyes? She did not weep, but uttered 
a little gasp of wonder. Something strange, awful, and perhaps ludi- 
crous had happened to her. If one could laugh, and forget it! And 
the man, the lover, the companion chosen for a lifetime ! Had he ever 
existed? Did he still exist? 

She threw herself prone on a couch, sheltered in an alcove, and 
buried her face in her hands. She endeavored to stifle feeling and 
suspend thought, by an effort of will, and yet her mind would fol- 
low, with painful clearness, the movements below stairs. The guests 
were departing with celerity, glad to escape from an embarrassing 
situation. 

The sarcastic profile of old Mrs. St. Nicholas rose before her with 
vivid distinctness. She beheld Mrs. Monteith, tranquil yet amused, 
a Laodicean, moved neither to excessive interest nor reproach. 
Surely Willy Monteith would share the opinion of the ushers, 
quoted by the little page, and consider the non-appearance of the 
bridegroom as “ a lark.” And William St. Nicholas, what of him? 
In her prostration and irritated sensibility she felt the scorn of his 
glance once more burn into her heart and brain. A deep flush 
suffused her face. He had the right to despise her, this indifferent 
and nonchalant neighbor. She had fully granted him this right, by 
her own conduct. She had acted according to her lights, and tried 
to grasp a title. 

She could see the family cross the street to the watchful old lady, 
peering out of the window, and hear the judgment that would in- 
evitably fall from those withered lips on the folly of Donald Belt’s 
daughter and the ostentation of Joseph Belt’s heiress. The well- 
born and self-respecting need assume no such attitude of aggression 


TULIP PLACE. 


131 


to maintain their place. She undervalued her own power in this 
very reaction of chagrin and mortification. 

Colonel Crosbie Ellery King was whispering a parting word to 
Mrs. Southby, behind that lady’s fan ; Captain Rawdon walked 
apart, in meditative mood, pondering on what might have been. 
Each gentleman could pluck a feather from the wing of hope, and 
derive good auguries from the mishap of the day. Let them wait! 

The tapers must be extinguished in the little room dedicated to 
the wedding ceremony by means of lamps and altar-picture. The 
white swan must droop and fade amidst the untouched crystal of the 
wedding-feast. Camilla beheld it all, with her hands clasped over 
her eyes. One chord remained paralyzed, the count. She did not 
even marvel, with vague feminine curiosity, what accident had hap- 
pened to detain, and justify his absence. 

Thus time passed, and her spirit, like Alcipliron, seemed to sway 
in darkness, blown about by every gust of wind. 

A moist and friendly nose touched her wrist; the dog Turco was 
seated beside the couch, regarding her with steadfast canine devotion. 
Turco was a dog with a history, and, like all heroes, wore his honors 
with unassuming dignity. A water-spaniel of unusual size, he had 
originally belonged to the owner of a bathing-machine on the French 
coast, and had saved the lives of eight sailors by carrying a corked 
line to them, on a rock. The celebrity gained by this deed, for which 
the commune granted him a medal, led to the purchase of Turco by 
a German prince. Camilla Belt had found him at a Vienna dog- 
show, the medal around his neck, and silver bracelets on his paws, 
a mark of affection on the part of his deceased master, the prince. 
She had chosen the spaniel among poodles of every degree of intelli- 
gence, lean Russian and Lithuanian hounds, and pugs. 

She took the dog’s head between her hands, with an irrepressible 
movement of surprise and gratification. “ Dear old Turco, you are 
sorry for me!” she exclaimed; "I believe you are my best friend.” 

The heavy and resolute footstep of Donald Belt became audible in 
the next room. 

“ Camilla.” 

“Yes, father.” 

She struggled to an erect posture, and pushed back her dishevelled 
hair. 

Donald Belt was relieved to discover no traces of weeping on her 
face. He hated tears. A crisis of feminine grief moved him to 
helpless exasperation. His daughter spared him such an ordeal. 
For his own part he had returned home from the hotel, after the in- 
terview with his prospective son-in-law, determined not to mince 
matters with the bride. Heroic treatment would have been merciful, 


132 


TULIP PLACE. 


in the end, with a weak and sentimental girl. Camilla was neither 
weak nor sentimental. His pride had been wounded by the events 
of the day, but his heart was strangely lightened. 

“Do you wish to know the truth?” he inquired, with his usual di- 
rectness of speech. 

“ Yes,” said Camilla, with a spasm contracting her features, quick- 
ly controlled. 

They regarded each other, and similar emotions brought out, in 
strong relief, the resemblance of parent and child. 

The dog yawned, and stretched himself on the rug at their feet, in 
the attitude of the Lombard lion carved on balustrade and gate- 
way. 

Then Donald Belt briefly told her the truth, sparing no detail, and 
avoiding all comment, until he had finished the recital. 

Camilla burst into a peal of laughter, so wild and shrill that the 
echo of her own voice startled her overwrought faculties. 

“ Don’t!” said her father, firmly, and brought her a glass of water. 

“ Tell me again, ” gasped Camilla, when she had drank the water, 
and her altered features revealed that she had drained a far more 
bitter cup. 

Donald Belt repeated the statement, still without the embellish- 
ment of comment, and observing her keenly the while. This time 
she did not laugh, but listened with lowered eyelids, and repulsed 
the spaniel with her foot. 

“ He wishes to see you, and beg your forgiveness. He will prove 
an able pleader,” said the father. “Perhaps you had better wait 
until his mustache grows again, for I warn you lie is a poor creature 
without one.” 

Camilla winced. 

“ I never wish to see him again, ’’she said, harshly. 

“You are sure?” insisted her father, with eagerness. 

“Very sure. Send him away.” 

“That’s right, my girl. Take plenty of time in choosing a hus- 
band.” 

He stooped to kiss her, stumbling over Turco in so doing, and 
patted her shoulder reassuringly. Camilla shrank from the caress. 
Iler wounds were too recent for amelioration from such balm of con- 
solation as her father’s blunt commendation, and yet her heart was 
moved towards this natural protector as it had never been before, 
now that she had so nearly lost him. 

“ The count will await his chance of reconciliation,” warned Don- 
ald Belt. “ He will not relinquish his hold on such a prize easily, I 
assure you. ” 

Camilla stiffened to icy rigidity. 


TULIP PLACE. 


133 


“ I will never see him again,” she panted. “ Tell him so. If he 
waited a year it could make no difference.” 

Then there was silence between father and child. 

In the meanwhile conspiracy was rife below-stairs. Mrs. Belt, on 
whom the most irksome burden of the day’s ceremonial had fallen, 
longed to summon the count, and learn the truth from his own lips. 
She had been forced to move about among the wedding-guests, a 
beautiful hostess, her very train of silver brocade and gleaming jewels 
commanding respect from the world, in an unusual situation. Ig- 
norant of the true cause of delay while undergoing this ordeal, her 
loyalty to the count did not w aver, nor did she question that ^ie 
difficulty, whatever it might be, would be satisfactorily adjusted in 
the presence of the tardy bridegroom, as the frost of midnight melts 
in the first rays of the morning sun. The departure of the guests 
and return of her husband from his visit to the delinquent failed to 
shake her allegiance to the culprit. The wedding was deferred, and 
might be more private. She would smooth the path for the lovers. 
She made one of those audacious movements which are ever possible 
to the timid and repressed nature, when Donald Belt sought his 
daughter’s retreat. She attempted to interfere, to serve as a more 
diplomatic and conciliatory messenger herself. Her husband was 
astonished by her unusual attitude of defiance. 

“I intend to tell Camilla the truth,” he had said, grimly. 

“ Let me go, instead, ’’Mrs. Belt had entreated, all her soul glowing 
in her lustrous eyes. “Don’t come between them! You don’t 
know wdiat you are doing, Donald. I will explain the accident to 
Camilla.” 

He put her aside, contemptuously. Was he to receive dictation 
from a silly woman? He went up-stairs without another word, and * 
she did not venture to follow him. Mrs. Belt, foiled, would not ac- 
knowledge herself defeated. She withdrew to her own room, and 
wrote a note to the Count Della Stella, counselling patience, on his 
part, and a speedy appearance to soothe the indignant bride. Per- 
sonal sympathy lent eloquence to her written words. 

The letter written, addressed, and sealed, she bethought her of the 
best means of despatching it, without incurring the wrath of the 
master of the house. An indolent temperament, dreading repri- 
mand, had long before rendered her deceitful. Who could she trust 
to deliver the note at the hotel? Her glance fell on Mademoiselle 
Aimee, who sat in a oorner, stupefied by the contretemps of the 
day. 

Aimee secretly disapproved of Camilla’s choice, but she was 
crushed by the sufferings of her friend, without wishing to intrude 
her sympathy. The matter was terribly tragic to Aimee. Mrs. Belt 


134 


TULIP PLACE. 


aroused her with the inquiry, if she would cloak and veil herself to 
take the note to the hotel door. Aimee hesitated. 

“Is it for Miss Belt’s happiness, dear madame?” she demanded, 
clasping her hands. 

“ Of course it is for her happiness,” retorted Mrs. Belt. 

“ Then I will go,” rejoined Aimee, with a resolute expression. 

A little figure, closely enveloped in a mantle, glided away from 
the Belt mansion, in one direction, just as a carriage approached from 
the other, and the count, also wrapped in a cloak, demanded admis- 
sion to the presence of Mrs. Belt. Anxiety and a sombre melan- 
choly were visible on his features, induced by his recent conversation 
with Donald Belt, and Mrs. Belt shrank from the fierce reproach of 
his dark eyes. Could it be that the misfortune of an hour’s delay 
had changed all for him? The listener trembled at the torrent of 
excuses, lamentations, and upbraiding falling from the shaven lips of 
the Count Della Stella, that curled with the bitterness of his wrong. 
The next moment she was no less moved by his fervent supplications 
to be brought into the presence of Camilla. After that, if she ban- 
ished him forever, he would go without a murmur. 

Mrs. Belt listened to the language of passion, with parted lips and 
dilating eyes. She was no longer young, and her hair was white, 
yet she resembled the child who hearkens, for the first time, to the 
music of the sea-shell. Once in her own life there had been a divine 
harmony, had her faculties been sufficiently fine to hear it. She 
could only advise hope and patience — vague and faltering assurances, 
silenced by the entrance of Donald Belt, with the intelligence that 
his daughter could not again receive the suitor, and preferred to con- 
sider all as ended between them. 

The count gazed at Donald Belt with profound amazement and 
incredulity. He was the victim of a dark conspiracy, and all finesse 
of delay.had been wholly dispensed with, as unnecessaiy. He was 
intensely miserable. A cold shudder of dread passed over his frame. 
Surely the w r edding-guests had been dismissed in summary fashion. 
The dalliance of an hour before a mirror had changed the course of 
his life. Ah, thrice-accursed barber! 

Mademoiselle Aimee slipped around the corner of Tulip Place, and 
crossed the square beyond, holding the letter tightly in one little 
hand. Much would result from this note, she felt convinced, and 
she was sacrificing her own feelings in delivering it. Did she not 
owe more to Camilla? Aimee realized that she would not long re- 
main in the household of the Count Della Stella. 

She traversed the square, and met Willy Monteith, whose bearing 
was the more innocent that he had watched her leave the house, and 
outflanked her steps by an adroit movement in the same direction. 


TULIP PLACE. 


185 


“ You are out late, mademoiselle, ” he said, with a roguish glance 
that brought a warm glow to Aimee’s cheek even beneath her thick 
veil. 

‘ * I am not afraid, ” she replied, demurely. 

“ You are not afraid because I am here to take care of you,” retort- 
ed the youth, standing before her, tall and fair, in the winter twilight. 

What wonder if Mrs. Belt’s dutiful messenger felt her pulses thrill 
with a sweet surprise to find such a champion unexpectedly arisen of 
her insignificant little person, late abroad amidst the turmoil of the 
town? If a meteor had flashed across her path, from the distant 
heavens, its presence could have been no more unforeseen and daz- 
zling. 

“You are kind,” she murmured. 

“You are lovely,” he retorted. 

As for Willy Monteith, there can be no doubt that an inherent 
fondness for mischief enhanced the charm of stolen interviews with 
the French girl, while maternal opposition added zest to the pursuit 
of Aimee. Why should his mother be so very severe on this pretty 
maiden, and watch her, on all occasions, as a cat does a mouse? 
The boyish element in his character was rapidly yielding to the man- 
ly instinct of wishing to shield Aimee in the dark streets. Willy 
was discovering a novel and inexplicable delight in studying Aimee’s 
mobile features, and awaiting her piquant replies to his words. 

She permitted him to walk beside her to the hotel, and en route he 
learned the history of the count’s misadventure. He listened in 
silence, and insisted on delivering the letter to the bell-boy, at the 
hotel door. 

And Camilla? She was aware that the Count Della Stella was in 
the house, breathed the same atmosphere, and a word would bring 
him to her side. A wild and reckless impulse moved her to confront 
and upbraid him, then a glance at her own pale face and dishevelled 
hair deterred her. 

She arose, lifted the lace veil, and drew it around her, gazing forth 
at the waning light of day through the mist of rich web. Her eyes 
grew dreamy, while the lines about her mouth did not relax. The 
folds of the veil clung about her and suffocated her. The filmy thing 
was a badge, but already a badge of the past. The delicately wrought 
flowers of the mesh were figures of intangible visions, shadows van- 
ished before realized. 

Camilla pushed aside the veil with her firm hand, and it fell, un- 
heeded, to the ground. Released from its embrace she breathed 
more freely. The twilight had stolen over the brightness of every- 
thing, slowly and imperceptibly, and a ray of the street lamp already 
flickered on the ceiling. Her arms sank to her sides, and her head 


13G 


TULIP PLACE. 


drooped. She was alone in the gathering darkness. She wished to 
be alone. Stay! The moist nose of Turco again touched her wrist. 
Fiercely repulsing human sympathy, the appeal of the animal moved 
her. She put her arms around the neck of the. dog that had saved 
life, battling with the waves of a stormy sea, and wept unre- 
strainedly. 

“ Why did this wretched man ever come at all, Turco? He has 
only troubled and wounded us,” she sobbed, echoing the query of 
many souls, bewildered by the tangled threads of existence. 

Willy Monteitli was late to dinner that night. He entered the 
family circle with sparkling eyes and scarcely suppressed laugh- 
ter. 

Camilla’s morbid conviction that the St. Nicholas household would 
be unsparing in criticism of her wedding-day found ample confir- 
mation in reality. Mrs. St. Nicholas experienced more interest in 
Donald Belt’s daughter than on any previous occasion. The old 
lady gave dignity to the present situation by many reminiscences of 
similar catastrophes, dating back to colonial times, and each involv- 
ing mystery, sentiment, and subsequent eccentricity on the part of 
the deserted bride. The narrator imparted a quaint and pensive 
charm to these histories which was not without influence on her 
hearers, as if she had taken from the depths of some cedar-wood 
chest the withered bridal bouquet, with its shrivelled ribbons, the 
yellowed gloves, and oddly fashioned bonnet of a past generation. 

Her son listened with marked uneasiness and impatience; her 
daughter with a musing smile. 

“Camilla Belt is capable of any eccentricity,” was the comment 
of the latter, as she tasted her soup. “I should not wonder if she 
eloped with her coachman, or never married at all. She might be- 
come a sort of Queen Bess in her spinsterhood.” 

“ You seem to have Camilla Belt on the brain,” said William St, 
Nicholas, dryfy. 

Mrs. Monteith applied her napkin to her lips delicately. 

“ Colonel King and Captain Rawdon may have a chance after all,” 
she added. 

Willy, the younger, flushed and excited, fixed his eyes on his uncle, 
as he took his seat. 

“ What a pity it is that you wear a beard, Uncle William!” he ex- 
claimed. “Would nothing induce you to part with it?” 

“I dare say you would like to borrow it,” was the imperturbable 
response. 

“ You see, we are to have a new barber set up for Tulip Place and 
the Bachelors’,” continued Willy, with a fresh access of hilarity. 
“Sam Hardinge has taken him under his protection already. His 


TULIP PL A CE. 137 

name is Jeremiah Wilkins. Oh, he is a first-rate barber, I can tell 
you. ” 

The youth launched into a vivacious description of the cause of 
the bridegroom’s absence on that day, avoiding all mention of his re- 
cent encounter with Mademoiselle Aimee Rauvier. When questioned 
by his mother as to how he knew so much about the affair, he parried 
the inquiry by the statement that the story was town talk. 

Old Mrs. St. Nicholas shook her head. 

“ No, my dear child,” she asserted, impressively, “ the excuse of a 
shaved mustache will do to amuse schoolboys, but there is another 
reason behind all that.” 

“A helpless foreigner within your tent,” began Mrs. Monteith, 
and yielded to sudden laughter, in turn. 

‘ ‘ What a go !” cried Willy. ‘ ‘ He couldn’t attend his own wedding 
because Jeremiah Wilkins had whipped off his mustache.” 

“ Willy, I would not rejoice in the success of a mean trick,” ad- 
monished the uncle, severely. 

Willy paused and reddened. He was unaccustomed to reprimand 
from such a source. 

“ It was not a trick, ” he protested. 

“It looks very much like one,” said William St. Nicholas. 11 No- 
blesse oblige, my boy. ” 

“I call that hard lines,” exclaimed the injured nephew. “The 
whole thing was an accident. New York boys are not sneaks, what- 
ever else they may be, sir. That’s no reason why Jeremiah Wilkins 
should be left to starve, though,” with a return of former gayety. 

“Ah, I understand,” said William, the elder, relenting. “You 
wish me to sacrifice the pride of my manhood, my beard, to furnish 
legitimate employment for Jeremiah Wilkins.” 

The jest of the town! The latest straw floating on the eddy of 
gossip was the incident concerning the mustache of the Count Della 
Stella. The tow T n caught up the history, and laughed over it, ridi- 
culing with merciless satire the participants. The barber’s assistant, 
deprived of employment by a blunder, found himself wafted along 
to prosperity on the wave of a fickle notoriety. He was patronized 
by the clubs. A popular comedian added to his repertoire of popular 
songs “The Barber’s Lament,” a ditty which invariably brought 
down the house. Jeremiah Wilkins did not lose his head amidst 
these ovations, but, availing himself of the generosity of Mr. Sam 
Hardinge and other j r oung gentlemen, opened a rival establishment 
to his late patron, and diligently plied brush and razor, while serv- 
ing, himself, as an object of public curiosity. 

What with the glibness acquired by Mr. Wilkins in repeating his 
tale to each new customer, and the natural diversity of the human 


13S 


TULIP PLACE. 


intellect in receiving impressions, not to mention of the human tongue 
in imparting them subsequently, the history of the count’s mus- 
tache gained such exaggeration as to become wholly unrecognizable, 
save as a hairy appendage of the masculine countenance, in the or- 
dering of nature. 

Camilla, shunning observation, remained in her own rooms. There 
was a fever of unrest in her blood, her manner was haughty and sus- 
picious to Aimee, her face grew thin and haggard. Did she ever re- 
proach herself, later, for her repulsion of Aimee, absorbed in the 
selfish contemplation of a first sorrow? Trouble, doubt, pain, w r ere 
new to her experience, but her will was unsubdued. 

The count presented his claim to a final hearing, daily, and ever in 
some persuasive form, now awaiting her relenting mood in person, 
and again by means of letters, and Camilla’s response was unvarying. 
She would not see him. Cruel and ungenerous she might be, and 
the incessant entreaties of her stepmother left her stubborn and un- 
moved. No; she would never see him again. 

Donald Belt received the eager suppliant, and his daughter experi- 
enced a cowardly sense of relief in his stalwart protection. The 
missives which accumulated beneath the count’s ready pen, in three 
languages, were returned unopened. He would not despair, for the 
spark of hope was kept alive by Mrs. Belt. 

One day the latter hastened up-stairs to Camilla, with unwonted 
emotion perceptible in her face and manner. 

“ The count is here again. If you would only receive him in ray 
little boudoir, I could easily manage that you were not disturbed. 
Your father is out.” 

The occasion seemed so propitious for a complete reconciliation 
between estranged lovers that Mrs. Belt tasted the sweetness of tri- 
umph in advance. 

Camilla looked at her fixedly. 

‘ ‘ I hate him, ” she said. 

Mrs. Belt grew pale. Her air-castle vanished. She became con- 
fused, and a little pique mingled with her disappointment 

“ So soon,” she murmured, sadly. 

“I only wish to forget he ever existed,” added Camilla, with a 
sigh of weariness. 

Mrs. Belt, thus cast upon her own resources, returned to the visitor, 
crestfallen, her bearing altered, her glance wavering and uneasy. 
She had rashly promised too much. If Camilla sided with her father 
the domestic battle would be a very unequal one, indeed. She took 
refuge in the assistance of Mademoiselle Aimee, employing her as an 
interpreter. The latter fulfilled her task with far more firmness than 
Mrs. Belt would have done. 


TULIP PLACE. 


130 


The count accepted his dismissal with melancholy resignation. 
He was a great gentleman to the last, with the courtesy which must 
he inherent, and can so seldom be acquired. He bowed to Mrs. Belt 
with a grace that she felt could only be learned at courts. 

“ I do not understand the change in Miss Belt’s sentiments towards 
me,” he said, with unconscious pathos. “I shall never marry an- 
other. Dear madame, if her resolution is ever modified, pray inform 
me.” Then he was gone. 

‘ ‘ A perfect gentleman,” sighed Mrs. Belt, whose hand he had kissed, 
and she brushed away a tear from the lashes of her brilliant eyes. 

Another of life’s illusions had been rudely dispelled. Was there 
any such thing as secure trust and happiness in the world. 

Mademoiselle Aimee also shed a few sympathetic tears. 

“ It is all very strange,” she murmured, thoughtfully. 

Camilla is just like her father,” said Mrs. Belt, with the sudden 
display of spirit that nerves the Persian to spear a stray Turcoman, 
when unprotected, and at the mercy of the feebler nature. 

The next day was the Sabbath. Donald Belt, who had left his 
daughter to follow her own course, addressed her, in his usual 
tones, 

“Are you going to church, Camilla?” 

She started, and raised her head. 

“ Yes,” she replied. 

“That’s right,” said the father. “I suppose a girl in your posi- 
tion need not hide, as if she were ashamed of herself, just because 
she has decided not to marry a foreigner. ” 

Camilla’s response was to select a modest costume of black silk, 
and then cast it aside in favor of another of velvet and fur. 

The chimes of St. Jerome began to ring out on the clear air. She 
paused at the casement, and watched the groups pass, all flocking to 
the fashionable sanctuary. Colonel King stepped along jauntily, 
beside Mrs. Southby. She must confront all these people; perhaps 
smile and speak with them, as if nothing had happened. 

Old Mr. and Mrs. St. Nicholas emerged from the opposite house, 
followed by Mrs. Monteith and her son. William St. Nicholas would 
doubtless follow. This thought brought the warm blood to her 
cheek. Was the church of St. Jerome, with its Gothic arches, 
stained windows, and ample chancel, sufficiently spacious -to hold 
her, in her humbled pride and humiliated dignity, and William St. 
Nicholas? On Twelfth Night her gaze had questioned him, in the 
triumph of her departure from his sphere. What if his eyes now 
judged her, in turn? She sank down on a chair, with failing reso- 
lution. 

“No, I cannot go, ’’she said, with whitening lips. 


140 


TULIP PLACE. 


Donald Belt made no comment, but ‘continued to read liis news- 
paper in the library, while Mrs. Belt and Aimee sought the church. 

The moments passed, and Camilla still sat inert, struggling with 
her own weakness, and ashamed of her vacillation. The deep re- 
verberations of the organ reached her inattentive ear, and the clear 
treble of the choristers. A longing to escape from the imprisonment 
of her own rooms began to oppress her. 

‘ ‘ Let us go away, ” she said, seeking the presence of her father. 

“Yes,” he retorted, folding the newspaper. “I must make a 
journey to the West. A breath of prairie air will do you good.” 

“Has he sailed?” she pursued, hoarsely. 

“Yes.” 

“ Thank God!” 

The Count Della Stella was once more a passenger on board the 
Cnstoforo Colombo, and had quitted the shores which had proved 
so cruelly inhospitable to him. Once more he leaned against the 
bulwark, but it was to drop the photograph of Camilla Belt, long 
cherished, into the ocean wave. He had met a sphinx, and foiled, 
rejected, humiliated, had failed to solve the enigma of the inflexible 
pride of a Northern woman. Familiar with the feminine heart in 
every phase of light and shadow, the sudden petulance of jealousy, 
the delicious spites and tears, he remained baffled and defeated by the 
nature of the girl whose picture he had consigned to the sea, with 
the dejection of failure and the sting of wounded vanity. 

Thus the steamship Cnstoforo Colombo took her way back to the 
.Mediterranean ports, bearer only of chagrin, disappointment, and 
vain regret. 


CHAPTER XII. 

WARP AND WOOF. 

“A mighty web she wove , 

Of double woof and brilliant hues ; whereon 

JFas intenooven many a toilsome strife 

Of Trojan warriors and of brass-clad Greeks 

For her encountered at the hands of Mars “ Iliad.” 

“What will Camilla Belt do next?” queried Mrs. Monteith, on 
more than one occasion. 

The town repeated the question, and hazarded many conjectures 
as to the result of the departure of Count Della Stella. In her 
sphere Camilla’s opinions, movements, and preferences acquired 
value in proportion to her fortune. The heiress of ten millions 
must he turned, as a sweet morsel, between the lips of public criti- 
cism, when an obscure and dowerless girl would have been left un- 
disturbed and unnoticed. The envious and the needy must lose 
themselves in a golden dream, handling, even in imagination, the 
wealth which belonged to another. The postponed wedding had 
certainly rendered more conspicuous the object of general interest, 
while each recurring week marked the issue of some fresh tale con- 
cerning Camilla. At one time she was pronounced engaged to 
Colonel Crosbie Ellery King, the gallant officer having caught her 
heart on the rebound. When rallied on the charge at the club the 
hero of many battles smiled complacently, and wisely refrained 
from self-defence. Again the navy gained precedence, in the per- 
son of dapper Captain Rawdon. Camilla was said to have plighted 
her troth to this brave navigator, and was to join him in China, 
whither he had been ordered, after a preliminary jaunt on camels 
in the Holy Land. Captain Rawdon became excited in manner 
when congratulated, on the strength of this rumor, and hastened to 
leave a card at the Belt mansion. We are ever ready to believe the 
report which suits our preferences and ambition. 

Gossip next dealt kindly with the slender and pale assistant of St. 
Jerome’s Church, the vision of whose ritualistic soul was said to be 
realized in the erection of a cathedral, by Miss Belt, where he would 
be installed, with a corps of attendant clergy, at the same date when 
she bestowed upon him her hand. 


142 


TULIP PLACE. 


Professor Vincent Ashwell was announced to be on the wing from 
the West, Camilla having followed him as far as Chicago, in com- 
pany with her father. 

The pride of Donald Belt had suffered during the recent unex- 
pected trial, but he betrayed no outward sign of annoyance, beyond 
contributing to certain charities with unusual liberality. His large 
form was to be seen in his accustomed haunts, and his intimate as- 
sociates of the Meerschaum Club, solid men of family, were under- 
stood to be so far in his confidence as to opine Camilla was well out 
of a bad business in not marrying the count after all, a verdict car- 
rying the weight of implying more than was imparted. 

The course actually pursued by Camilla, on her return from the 
Western journey, was to thrust out of her sight, as far as possible, 
the pretty feminine luxuries with which it had previously been her 
pleasure to surround her existence, to attire herself with the most 
severe simplicity, to walk rather than drive, and to neither attend 
nor give those balls and amateur theatrical parties that had prom- 
ised so much diversion in anticipation. She was suffering a reac- 
tion of mood. Her wealth was hateful to her, and she shrank from 
contemplation of it, wounded to the soul that mere riches should 
furnish her only claim to the consideration of her fellow-creatures. 
She was still drifting amidst unknown currents, with no secure 
footing possible in the shifting sands, and her present course, even 
accepted as a whim, was the passionate protest of a nature still 
sound against that canker of doubt and suspicion of the motives of 
every one which so speedily comes to the rich, often leading to bit- 
terest scepticism of humanity. Camilla cherished in her memory 
the image of a pitiful manikin, whom she had foolishly designated 
as a man, of the name of the Count Della Stella. It was not his 
fault that he was only a manikin— a toy, broken at the first rude 
shock. The fault was her own in accepting him as other than a 
plaything, the leader of the cotillion, the bejewelled knight, in 
pasteboard cuirass, of a fancy ball. 

Hangings, vases, and pictures were swept aside. She even ram- 
bled through the conservatory of chrysanthemums as if tempted to 
banish the yellow velvet of the Gloria-Mundi, the soft gold of the 
Martia, the superb ruby red of the Africaine, the mauve of the 
Duke of Teck, and the bronzed Comet, in favor of the bank of ex- 
quisite white Elaine, which imparted a snowy hue to the entire hot- 
house at night. 

“ Would you have only cacti, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Belt, in a 
peevish tone, for. next to the contemplation of jewels she liked gor- 
geous flowers. 

Camilla inspected the aviary without reply, and the metallic gloss 


TULIP PLACE. 


143 


of sun-birds, cardinals, starlings, and paroquets, the perpetual min- 
gling of scarlet, purple, emerald, and blue behind gilded bars was 
equally displeasing to her. 

“ Pray, leave the birds!” cried Mrs. Belt, once more. “ Must we 
be reduced to the old gray parrot and some Java sparrows?” 

Camilla frowned, and proceeded to unfold her plans to the bewil- 
dered Aimee, who had remained in Tulip Place during the recent 
journey of father and daughter. Camilla intended to mope no long- 
er. Inaction was intolerable to her energetic temperament. She 
displayed, triumphantly, a diary, with a course of study and a dis- 
tribution of hours as exemplary as the routine arranged, in his 
youth, by the late Prince Albert. Each day symphonies and duets 
were to be thoroughly mastered on twin pianofortes, and singing- 
lessons resumed "with a favorite master. Plaster casts and drawing- 
materials, in another room, denoted an equal determination to excel 
in form, perspective, and coloring. A pile of ponderous volumes 
indicated a leaning towards a course of serious reading, while Ma- 
demoiselle Aimee was requested to resume the dialogues of Racine, 
Corneille, and MoliSre, suspended by the intrusion of the suitor 
from over the seas. 

Camilla’s eyes sparkled, her cheek flushed, and she compressed 
her lips with the firm resolution to achieve some work independent 
of her fortune. Her ambition to develop talent was marred by im- 
patience, and a scorn of undue preliminary drudgery. ' Pent up and 
thwarted in one direction, the full current of life within her breast 
sought the outlet of some fresh channel. 

Aimee watched her, doubtfully. 

“Will the fever of industry last?” mused the little companion, 
whose own reveries were apt to be beguiling at this time, when she 
carried some fresh letter of Willy Monteith’s concealed over her 
throbbing heart, for frequent and surreptitious perusal, hidden 
within the pages of Camilla’s tomes. 

“ We might take up modelling in clay, Aimee,” suggested the lat- 
ter, one morning, surveying the sheet of paper before her with a 
half-suppressed yawn. 

She was copying a plaster cast of Minerva, in crayon, and she 
transferred some of the dust from her blackened fingers to her nose, 
as she spoke. 

“To model must be very difficult,” demurred Aimee, glancing up 
with eyes wonderfully soft and tender from a volume of Bossuet, where 
the glowing words of Willy Monteith greeted her, within the printed 
page, with the caress the writer would fain have bestowed instead. 

Confidences trembled on Aimee’s lips, but she was chilled to silence 
by Camilla’s unconscious attitude. A presence that makes the old 


144 


TULIP PLACE. 


earth young again, with the unfolding growth of each succeeding 
generation, was hovering over Tulip Place on roseate wing. The 
boy-god was on mischievous errand intent, his aim the defiance of 
maternal care and worldly wisdom. 

Camilla again yawned, and her crayon broke. The process of 
shading Minerva’s helmet was tedious, not to say tamely conven- 
tional. Would it not be better to commence with liviri£ models at 
once — some bearded old man, rendered picturesque by means of tat- 
tered hat and cloak, or a sparkling brunette, decked out from Ca- 
milla’s collection of peasant jewelry? Her glance wandered from the 
self-imposed task, as a child’s attention strays in conning a lesson, 
to the columns of a weekly journal, where an advertisement attract- 
ed her eye. A needlework society offered a prize of two hundred 
and fifty dollars for the best specimen of embroidery submitted in 
competition, within a certain date. 

Camilla smiled, and elevated her eyebrows. Was she not skilled, • 
in a fitful fashion, in all manner of cunning designs with the needle? 
Minerva, the piano, and the serious works were abandoned in favor 
of canvas, silk, wools, and velvet. Patterns were discussed with 
Mrs. Belt and Mademoiselle Aimee, but Camilla shook her head. 
She must compose an original design. 

At length she announced the inspiration had come to her. She 
had been turning the leaves of a rich missal, and paused at a quaint 
design of the Virgin Mary which pleased her fancy. Then she 
recklessly sacrificed a superb piece of antique gold brocade to her 
purpose, fitting the fabric, when shaped to moderate dimensions, in 
a frame, to work according to her own imagination. The brocade 
had once belonged to priestly vestments, and when Camilla pur- 
chased it of a Roman antiquarian she did not too closely question 
whether it had served in dismantled convent, or been stolen from 
the sacristy of some hill city, sacred to the memory of former popes. 

It was on this rich background that her needle readily traced, 
taking the missal for guide, a slender and drooping Madonna, seated, 
and embroidering in turn, at a curious frame, a red lily. The 
flower being thus copied was placed in an upright vase at her side. 
A dove, wrought in silver thread, hovered above the bent head. 
The sacred emblems employed separated Camilla’s labors from sim- 
ilar forms in Chinese and Japanese art, while the gorgeous tissue of 
the foundation atoned for any poverty of design. The task soothed 
and interested her. Now she was a true needlewoman, and might 
be drawing those rich threads to win her bread. How much money 
would be earned by the labor? To what use should her earnings be 
put? She plunged, in thought, into those vast hives of industry, 
the great emporiums of trade of all cities, and imagined she was 


TULIP PLACE. 


145 


one of the human atoms of the mechanism, fabricating a design for 
the department of embroidery to undersell smaller dealers, and tempt 
fair ladies to palm off the purchased gift as their own work. Then 
she was the typical Song-of-the-Shirt seamstress, shivering in a cold 
garret, food and fire depending on the completed drudgery, cloth- 
of-gold and rainbow silks contrasting with squalid penury. This 
brain-picture proved too painful. 

Camilla sighed, unconsciously, and with a fresh skein of blue 
threads took up a different train of reflections, more congenial to 
her own surroundings. She was the baron’s daughter of feudal ro- 
mance, dreaming in her turret chamber of the hero she would serve 
in the banquet-hall, her blonde tresses braided beneath a gilded net, 
and her satin robe bordered with fur. She was Queen Matilda, de- 
signing the Bayeux tapestries, in company with her ladies, stitching 
those fading outlines which have so long survived her. Thence the 
pleased fancy had ample scope in emulation of all those noble dam- 
sels whose skill with pencil and needle is supposed to have gratified 
their loyal subjects, serving as noble examples, whether in designing 
altar-piece of humble sanctuary on the shores of the Baltic Sea or 
contributing to modern art exhibition. 

Camilla adhered to those broad effects of shading and outline 
deemed artistic in our day, rather than the fine elaboration of the 
time of our grandmothers. 

How many old ladies smile to remember the linen cambric shirt, 
with the voluminous ruffles, made by their youthful fingers for a 
favorite brother, under the eye of the inexorable schoolmistress, 
as the crowning glory of industry of their ten years’ span. 

The labor accomplished, Camilla Belt took as many precautions 
as if she were despatching a valentine in sending the parcel to the 
society. Mademoiselle Aimee was intrusted with the delicate mis- 
sion. The golden Madonna was marked with the number twenty- 
one and the letters C. B. She awaited the result with the curiosity 
and impatience of a novice. 

Does the course of true love never run smoothly? Is not oppor- 
tunity the flowery pathway frequently opened, in a dazzling vista 
of the possible and. attainable, to lovers who would never have 
traced the route for themselves? Would little Aimee Rauvier have 
pursued her rash course had not Camilla sent her to haunt the bu- 
reau of needlework, and meet Willy Monteith on the way, for the 
exchange of the sweet mutual confidences which had become so 
necessary to the happiness of each ? 

The prize advertisement had set other hearts throbbing besides 
that of the girl in Tulip Place, striving to conquer herself by means 
Of some wholesome employment. In the house number Twenty- 

10 


146 


TULIP PLACE. 


seven Elderberry Street, Brooklyn, whither William St. Nicholas 
had conducted the waifs of the Donohue family in safety, the mat- 
ter was discussed, with animation, by Mrs. Hopper and her four 
grown daughters, and it was decided that Fanny should enter the 
lists, by reason of her superior skill, while her sisters honorably re- 
frained from competition. 

Mr. Abel Hopper, a tall and thin man of careworn aspect, with 
white beard and hair, was an agent for the sale of the Belt sewing- 
machine. Frederick Hopper, the only son, was a pale youth of 
good appearance, a clerk in an insurance office, with no prospect 
of promotion, and deemed fortunate to keep a situation at all 
amidst a throng of eager applicants. Frederick Hopper rejoiced 
in the reputation of being a dancing man, and as such certainly re- 
ceived more of the cakes and ale than did his sisters. His invita- 
tion to Camilla’s flower ball had come as the waving of a distant 
sceptre, and through the instrumentality of a fashionable broker, 
acting as a sort of recruiting agent on such occasions. The host- 
ess had not the slightest interest in the name of her guest, as asso- 
ciated with the invention of her grandfather, while serving, herself, 
as a beacon-light of unsurpassed and remote splendor to the entire 
Hopper household. Donald Belt had never come in direct contact 
with the agent, Abel Hopper, the invention which had served as a 
foundation-stone to his prosperity having been long since sold to a 
company. 

The house on Elderberry Street was a cheerful centre of affection 
and hope. The mother was a warm-hearted, if hard-featured, ma- 
tron, and known as a “stirring woman,” with four pretty daugh- 
ters to marry and settle. Sundry critical neighbors accused the 
Hopper ladies of being ever on the go, whether skurrying across 
the ferry in search of bargains at certain auction-rooms down-town, 
or traversing the widely expanding avenues and suburbs of their 
native city. To keep up appearances, and make both ends meet, 
required an exercise of all the energies of this active household. 
The young ladies trimmed their own bonnets, turned their gowns, 
made pies and gingerbread of rare excellence in an area kitchen, 
and with their own fair fingers swept and garnished the interior of 
home. In public they sang in the church choir, and taught in a 
mission-school of a Sunday afternoon; yet there could be no doubt 
Freddy had more than his share of the good things of life, and, pet- 
ted by mother and sisters in addition, was in a fair way to become 
spoiled. 

Romance glowed in the hearts of the Misses Hopper with an in- 
extinguishable fervor. An occasional sociable came in their way, 
as daisies and buttercups bloom in every meadow-path, and the ex- 


TULIP PLACE. 


147 


citing possibility of meeting one’s fate on the ferry-boat was ever be- 
fore their eyes, rendering them very careful as tc the number of 
buttons on their boots, and the suitable adjustment of coquettish 
little face-veils, as every right-minded young woman should be. 

The prize conjured up glowing visions. Oh, if Fanny won it, not 
only would the money go far in the outlay of spring attire, but a 
field for future employment be secured, in a genteel craft adapted 
to women not sufficiently well educated for teachers, and too proud 
to serve in shops ! 

Frances Hopper set about the task with even more zeal than had 
characterized Camilla Belt, when the latter sacrificed the priest’s 
vestment. In family conclave it was decided that Mrs. Hopper’s 
wedding-dress must furnish the requisite materials, as a delicate silk 
of a soft ashes-of -roses tint. The matron demurred. The wedding- 
dress had done incredible service on august occasions, and might 
still be rendered useful for one of the girls. The artist in needle- 
work remained firm, while her sisters regarded her with a certain 
awe. Fanny was a blooming maiden of eighteen, dimpled, smiling, 
and altogether alluring, with coils of brown hair, and a white throat 
rendered still more fair by encircling velvet and locket. The color 
of the silk was adapted to her need. How was she to buy other 
materials just then? A small immolation of vanity must be made 
that much good might result. Mrs. Hopper thereupon yielded up 
the front breadth of the wedding-gown without further opposition. 
“A trimming of flounces might cover it up,” she meditated, hope- 
fully, with a view to a change of fashions. 

Fanny, also, indulged in day-dreams over the embroidery frame. 
She was fancy free, save for several ephemeral flirtations with her 
partners at the sociables, yet she built an air-castle, as her needle 
flew, of the lover who would behold her in a costume of lilac wool, 
with roses in her fresh straw hat. This child of the nineteenth 
century was unable to determine whether she should meet her fate 
at church or on the ferry, but she was confident he would be estab- 
lished in a good business, and inclined to a safe maturity, either as 
bachelor or widower. 

“I can have a brown-stone-front house, splendidly furnished, aud 
he will take Fred into partnership,” she soliloquized. “Pa shall 
have a new arm-chair. ” 

Frances Hopper, true to the creed of her instruction, fashioned of 
her mother’s wedding-gown a panel, and designed with her needle 
a scene on the soft-hued background, hints of clouds drifting low, a 
sun sinking behind hills, with spokes of rays piercing the vapor, 
and rippling water forming the foreground. Several birds, wing- 
ing their flight in the left corner, suggested distance, and the New 


148 


TULIP PLACE. 


Jersey coast, while a jaunty little boat rode the waves in gallant 
style. Here, again, the rigging of the craft and the brevity of the 
birds’ legs alone saved the design from absolute imitation of a Jap- 
anese screen. Abel Hopper pronounced the birds to be snipe, and 
indulged in agreeable recollections of shooting on Long Island in 
earlier days. The result charmed the family critics of tender-hued 
silk — fraught with many memories, at least to the mistress of the 
house — and outlines obtained by means of sober shades of etching 
threads. 

Fanny took the work herself, escorted by her adoring sisters, and 
proudly inscribed her name. If she won the prize the spring cos- 
tume of lilac wool would be her own, and the future husband appear, 
attracted thereby, for he could not be expected to discern her from 
afar, clad in her old black jacket of many winters’ wear. Thus 
reasoned the practical Frances. 

Over on the w T est side of the city of New York, Mary Fox glanced 
at the sheet of paper in which the slice of cheese had been fetched 
for grandfather from the grocery, by Jem, and read the advertise- 
ment of the prize. She pored over the paragraph for a long time. 
A ray of hopeful light dawned in her clear eyes. Oh, if she could 
win it ! The winning of the prize meant to her dragging the entire 
family forth from the slough of extreme poverty, into which it was 
sinking deeper and deeper with the lapse of years. The winning of 
the prize meant to her the respite of breathing space requisite to be- 
gin the world over again, to take the fresh start which also signifies 
a renewal of courage. 

The sphere of Mary Fox was a narrow one, hampered by many 
difficulties, with small scope for the exercise of noble qualities of 
courage and enterprise, in the ceaseless drudgery of petty routine, 
and even a cheerful spirit chilled and thwarted by contemplation of 
the household grievance. The grievance was the sale of some land 
and a dilapidated little house to shrewd Joseph Belt, once upon a 
time. 

Grandfather, seated at the corner of the stove, bent, shrivelled, 
and querulous, but in possession of all his faculties, had married the 
heiress of that memorable bargain, a jaunty bridegroom, some fif- 
teen years her junior, and had grumbled over the transaction ever 
since. Grandfather had been difficult to suit in the matter of use- 
ful employment in his day, and various masters had failed to afford 
him satisfaction, until it had come to be clearly understood that he 
was old, and his son’s children ministered henceforth to his wants, 
while he glowered at the buildings rising on the Belt property op- 
posite his own shabby and overcrowded dwelling. The old man was 
exacting as to his little comforts, and, if denied them for a space, 


TULIP PLACE. 


140 


did not hesitate to run in debt to neighboring tradespeople for 
snuff, tea, or a pipe. David Fox, with the retreating and insuffi- 
cient brow, furtive eye, and heavy chin, would never have achieved 
the work of keen, patient, and courageous Joseph Belt, but his re- 
sentment was none the less sombre and malevolent, for that reason, 
and he laid the grievous burden of it upon his weak and vacillat- 
ing descendants, until Charles Fox became more shambling and dis- 
couraged in bearing, as well as less steady at work, frequenting bar- 
rooms to keep up his courage, Margaret Fox sought refuge in the 
quiet grave, and even the boys began to look sulky over their com- 
mon, albeit but vaguely understood, wrongs, especially when hunger 
pinched them. 

The heaviest burden of care had fallen on the only girl and eldest 
child, Mary. If not wholly crushed by the influence of the grand- 
father’s pessimism, it w r as because she had no leisure to think of 
herself and analyze her emotions. Since her twelfth year, when the 
mother died, Mary had served as housekeeper and nurse to the 
young brothers, and tended the grandfather. Her equanimity passed 
for mere stupidity with David Fox. She had picked up such crumbs 
of education as she possessed as best she could, being denied school 
by reason of the clamorous requirements of the domestic circle. 

A girl of good natural abilities, Mary had early discerned many 
fields of employment where she could have excelled in time. From 
cash-girl to bookkeeper, her mind covered the entire range of femi- 
nine industries, intuitively divining her own capacity for such situa- 
tions by means of that very instinct of industry lacked by her 
family. 

“ Working for a living ? 

May no worse befall ! 

Love is always busy, 

God works over all.” 

If there is work that stimulates and arouses the noblest powers of 
the worker, so there is fruitless toil, a strain on feeble nerves, and a 
weight on sinking hearts. Such w'as the portion of this girl. 

At twenty -one Mary Fox sat at her sewing-machine, hollow- 
cheeked, careworn, held back by the fretful exactions on her time, 
broken in spirit by the family discontent, and wearied with the per- 
petual railing at fate, that poverty brooded over the Fox hearth- 
stone, while opulence was the Belt portion. 

The machine had been purchased only at great personal sacrifice, 
by means of pennies saved from grandfather’s snuff, the occasional 
five dollars eliminated from Charles Fox’s wages, when an indus- 
trious fit was upon him, the proceeds of such scanty earnings as she 
could command. She was the only girl, the mother was dead, and 


150 


TULIP PLACE. 


a woman was needed in the house. Something more than the sting 
of envy at the Belt prosperity stirred in her breast, in the longing to 
escape and work at her best. 

Grandfather did not object to the whirring hum of the machine- 
wheel, in the window, while his eyes were too dim to decipher the 
name of Belt engraved on the steel plate. 

Such was the lot on which the prize competition dawned, like a 
ray of sunshine penetrating a dark chamber. That day Mary took 
back some work which a dressmaker had given her. Color warmed 
her resolute face, and brightness dawned in her eyes. Many articles 
were needed at home, yet, with the rashness of a speculator, she 
staked her money on the purchase of the materials needful for her 
purpose, and withdrew to the corner behind the sewing-machine to 
mature her plan. The men would not notice her occupation, while 
she could secure the necessary leisure by stating that it was a task 
she must finish as quickly as possible. Already this very labor was 
involving her in a mesh of fresh difficulty. The grandfather de- 
manded toll out of the dressmaker’s payment, one of the boys wished 
to borrow a few shillings, and she had prevaricated, stating she had 
not been paid. Grandfather blustered, the boys stared, and Mary 
took refuge in her corner. 

The happiest period of this girl’s life was the time devoted to 
making the needlework design for the competitive exhibition. She 
did not dare to reflect on the plush cushions, the screens, the fans, 
which would assuredly be found in company with her own modest 
offering. She could only hope the merit of her labor would rival 
the others, and gradually this prayer gave her confidence in the 
result. Perhaps it was her destiny to succeed. Her heart gained 
lightness and expansion, as she wrought, and she crooned a song, too 
low for grandfather’s ear. 

Do you imagine Mary Fox had no reveries, no air-castles, over the 
task, because she was friendless, had never received the smile of a 
lover, and dwelt on the third story of a shabby brick house, with a 
peevish old man seated beside the fire? A learned author has stated 
that all descriptions of the instincts and sufferings of the poor by a 
superior class are the results of false sentimentality, ignorant of the 
actual person delineated. This affirmation may apply to the peasant 
class of Europe, but cannot serve for a measurement of American 
character. 

Mary Fox possessed as fine susceptibilities, and, perhaps, far more 
noble instincts than those daughters of Tulip Place, Mrs. Monteith 
and Camilla Belt. Given the same advantages, she would have held 
ground with either of them. As it was, her dreams were of her 
sphere. The prize won, she would get more employment through 


TULIP PLACE. 


151 


the same channel, and ease might result. She permitted herself a 
long holiday, such as she had never known, all her senses washed 
pure of the town, on the brink of ocean, or amidst the grass and trees 
of the country. She bought, in sheer folly of wanton extravagance, 
a tiny glass fernery, a tropical world of mystery, to unfold on the 
table. She had no lover, and yet the thought mingled pleasantly 
with her musings that the gentleman who came so often to the home 
of the German music-master opposite should smile on her, as well. 

The gentleman was William St. Nicholas. Her glance strayed to 
the piano manufactory over the way, erected on the Belt property, 
and her pride took fire. She had a secret, a puzzle, which had 
lurked in her brain for years. If one might meet the memory of 
cruel, exacting old Joseph Belt on the equality of another inven- 
tion! 

Her fingers shredded out the borderifig fringes of the Bolton 
sheeting, and marked a cunning mosaic-work of colored silks in the 
corners of the table-cover, and thence wove a garland of autumn 
leaves— such as glorify even city squares in their season — russet, 
scarlet, and orange, around the margin. 

Throbbing head and fevered cheek, aching nerves and trembling 
hands, contributed their aid to complete the task, until the girl was 
enabled to carry her bundle to the office, already visited by Made- 
moiselle Aimee and the Misses Hopper. 

One day Aimee entered the presence of Camilla, with sparkling 
eyes, and the announcement that the golden Madonna had won the 
prize. Concealment of identity being no longer desirable, the state- 
ment that Miss Belt was as clever with her needle as she was highly 
accomplished in the arts was inserted in several fashionable jour- 
nals, to stimulate the industry of other ladies to active emulation. 

Camilla was delighted. She held in her hand tightly the money 
she had earned, fearing it might melt away, like fairy gold. For 
the first time she found the flattery of public opinion agreeable, be- 
cause it was merited. Her ability, and not her wealth, had gained 
her commendation. Subtile distinction of human vanity ! She moved 
about in tranquil humor, marvelling how she should spend the prize- 
money. Donald Belt was gratified as well, and rallied his daughter 
on her stock of talents, whereby she could maintain herself should 
the wheel of fortune turn— as rich men, secure in their own fortune, 
are fond of doing. Mrs. Belt was puzzled, with the slightest pos- 
sible shade of scorn perceptible on her delicate features. 

The incident afforded Mrs. Monteith an opening for the renewal 
of intimate intercourse, which she had awaited with concealed 
eagerness. She could not intrude on Camilla’s seclusion, but surely 
she might hasten to express her admiration of the pre-Raphaelite 


152 


TULIP PLACE . 


Madonna, and resume association, veiling deeper currents beneatli 
harmless and interminable feminine discussion of embroidery. 

The tidings of disaster were received at number Twenty-seven 
Elderberry Street, Brooklyn, with sobs and lamentations, where 
Fanny Hopper leaned her pretty head on the table and yielded to 
tears. Anger and woe rankled in the feminine breast. Of course 
everybody could not gain the prize, in reason, but that Camilla Belt 
should have proved victor added the drop of gall to the cup of bit- 
terness. 

“I should think she had about enough now,” was the gloomy 
comment of Mrs. Hopper, who had so recklessly burned her ships, 
in the matter of sacrificing the front breadth of her wedding-gown. 

Fanny raised her flushed face, and clinched her hand. 

“I call it downright wicked of Miss Belt to take bread out of the 
mouth of poor girls like that!” she exclaimed, fiercely. 

Mrs. Hopper sighed, and a wrinkle marred her forehead. Busi- 
ness was dull, and the butcher’s account weighed on her spirits; two 
circumstances that led a naturally liberal-minded woman to judge 
the conduct of Camilla with rancorous severity. 

“ I wish she might ever know what it is to need two hundred and 
fifty dollars,” remarked the matron. “She never will, though. 
That sort always go in a coach and pair for the rest of their days.” 

Fanny drew her breath hard, and set her little white teeth. 

“ I call it wicked!” she reiterated. 

If there were sobs of disappointment in the cheerful home on 
Elderberry Street, there was despair, mute, pallid, and still, in the 
poor room of the brick house near the Hudson River. Mary Fox ate 
no supper, but sat with her hands folded in her lap. 

“ Look here, I haven’t got another cent,” announced Charles Fox, 
hoarsely, with spirit-tainted breath and watery eyes. “ When’s that 
dressmaker going to pay up?” 

“To-morrow,” replied the daughter, mechanically. 

On the morrow the Belt sewing-machine went to the pawnbroker. 
Mary Fox walked beside the cart of the friendly ragman, who car- 
ried it for her concealed among his bags. Her face was pale, and 
her head bent, as if she were following a funeral. Is not the pawn- 
broker’s shop the grave of Hope? 

“ Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them 
about?” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

NETTLES. 

“ There are nettles everywhere, 

But smooth green grasses are more common still ; 

The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud." — Mbs. Browning. 

“ Miss Belt, I believe you do not approve of the programme.” 

“ Oh, yes, Mr. St. Nicholas, it is a good programme.” 

He made a little gesture, swiftly and unconsciously, enjoining si- 
lence. She was astonished, even piqued. The music was about to 
recommence, and Mendelssohn was better worth hearing than her 
conversation. She scanned the man at her side, for a moment, then 
drooped in an attitude of languid indifference. At least he was 
honest. Never before had Camilla been set aside for music. 

The concert was given under the direction of a society of which 
William St. Nicholas was a member, and the famous Steinbach had 
graciously promised to sing. Mrs. Monteith had invited Camilla to 
accompany her, and when her brother conducted the ladies to seats 
a place was reserved for him by his affectionate sister. 

“Do sit here, Willy,” urged Mrs. Monteith, and speedily launched 
into lively debate with a party of friends beyond, on the respective 
merits of two rival singers. 

The overture ceased, and William St. Nicholas turned again to 
Camilla, once more aware of her propinquity. 

“Does that please you?” he inquired, with a long inspiration of 
contentment. 

“No,” she retorted, curtly, with a wilful movement of her chin. 

He looked at her calmly. 

“Ah!” he rejoined, gravely and incredulously. 

Camilla failed to lure him into open conflict; he declined to pick 
up the gauntlet which she had flung down in a spirit of perversity. 

“I do not care for the programme. It is unnecessarily tedious 
and dull. You must be shocked by my obtuseness, Mr. St. Nicho- 
las. People do not often dare to confess how dreadfully concerts 
bore them. They sit through interminable symphonies, like solemn 
owls, without venturing to assert that their souls are their own,” 
exclaimed Camilla, with provoking malice. 


154 


TULIP PLACE. 


“You dare, it seems,” he rejoined, adjusting the opera-glass to 
sweep the stage, where a dazzling vision had just appeared, greeted 
by a ripple of applause from the audience. 

A woman stood there, surrounded by coils of undulating green 
draperies, her hair of palest gold, crowned by emeralds, in form of 
tremulous rushes; her whim the triumph of posing before entranced 
multitudes as a Lurlei-maid, harp in hand. Encircled by the nim- 
bus of reputation as a successful artiste , and seen through the me- 
dium of stage lights, she seemed a being set apart from the touch of 
time and misfortune. The old story of power, remote as the day of 
the Empress Theodora, in her youth of the circus, was repeated for 
transatlantic ears in favor of the Steinbach. Had not a great com- 
poser embraced her with tears, after the fall of the curtain, trans- 
ported b} r her dramatic interpretation of his chef d’ oeuvre? Was she 
not detained in music-loving Russia beyond all precedent, and over- 
whelmed with jewels, rivalling Golconda? Had not Paris, even, 
been moved to praise, despite her Teutonic origin, while the London 
season was deemed incomplete without her? 

Camilla was aroused to interest. The Steinbach had rendered 
Wagner as Elsa and the Niebelungen spirits were never before sung 
for American audiences, during the present winter and past spring. 

“ He knows the prima donna,” thought Camilla, observing Will- 
iam St. Nicholas with a certain element of curiosity. 

Yes, the musical amateur knew the siren in the green robe, and 
his pulses throbbed a trifle more quickly for her appearance there, 
and in anticipation of the silvery tones of a voice so suave, magnetic, 
and rich that it drew the soul of the listener away from all other ties 
to a different atmosphere, a realm of emotion remotely suggestive, 
evanescent, exquisite in the very cadence of unavailing sadness and 
regret. 

William St. Nicholas, forced to listen to his sister’s prattle con- 
cerning Camilla Belt, and disapproving of the latter as much as ever, 
had not found it unpleasant to be seated beside her at the concert, 
until the Steinbach appeared, and then he wished to be alone ; above 
all, that the object of his disdain were not there. In his heart he 
disdained Camilla, not more for the failure of the wedding ceremony 
than for her choice of the Count Della Stella as a husband. He 
tried her and found her sadly wanting, in his own thought, with ad- 
ditional severity that all the other women admired the foreign 
nobleman as well. She was a flower too boldly scanned, and thrown 
aside. 

Her courage and calmness in attending the concert surprised him 
a little, and perhaps she gained his respect for the haughty coldness 
of her bearing. She should have hidden in a miserable obscurity, 


TULIP PLACE. 


155 


yet she carried herself well on the whole, and he relented so far as 
to approve of her recent employment in embroidering the golden 
Madonna, and winning a prize. Still, he was wary and suspicious 
to the extent of not being easily propitiated, and he divined sisterly 
scheming in the attitude of Mrs. Monteith, and an ultimate intention 
of drawing Camilla and himself together and establishing a mutual 
liking, such as might readily result. He was very tender with his 
sister, but his will was firm. Successor of the Count Della Stella ! 
The very suggestion brought a dark flush of anger to his brow. 
That would be playing second, indeed ! 

He raised his glass and scrutinized Steinbach, with mingled attrac- 
tion and repulsion. The matchless singer, the beguiling coquette, 
the clever actress and woman, had cast her spell upon him, as she 
invariably did on all who came within the circle of her charms, but 
the influence had waned with her absence, and he had recovered his 
usual sober mood. To-night he experienced a reckless impulse to 
court the danger anew. Why not? He was free. As well drain 
the Circe cup of fascination proffered by the dim as leave it for 
another. 

The Steinbach, guided by a few chords of the orchestra, began to 
sing, and all other sound was hushed. The clear notes of her voice 
gushed forth in unrestrained volume, then sprinkled the vast hall, 
as it were, with pearly trills and roulades, and changing by subtile 
modulations to a minor key, full of passionate suggestiveness, ac- 
quired a weird cadence and paused abruptly, leaving the listening 
ear startled, perplexed, yet longing for more. The song was as 
strangely enigmatical as the singer, and the voice was a Northern 
voice, lacking the melting warmth of the South, as it acquired some- 
thing spiritual in comparison. 

The audience acknowledged the magnetism of both by recalling 
her. She smiled, and her bearing changed. In a moment she was 
the petted favorite of the public — capricious, petulant, and arch. 
She put her finger on her lip, with the charming grace of taking the 
audience into her confidence and sharing a secret, then seated her- 
self at a pianoforte, running her fingers lightly over the keys. Then 
she warbled forth a little melody, giving the English words of a fa- 
miliar triolet, with a pretty accent: 

“ When first we met we did not guess 
That Love would prove so hard a master ; 

Of more than common friendliness 
When first we met we did not guess. 

Who could foretell this sore distress, 

This irretrievable disaster, 

When first we met ? We did not guess 
That Love would prove so hard a master.” 


156 


TULIP PLACE. 


As slie sang, dwelling on each turn with delicate and roguish em- 
phasis, the actress looked at William St. Nicholas, and all eyes were 
turned in his direction. 

“Does the singing bore you, Miss Belt?” he inquired, replacing 
the glass in the case. 

“The singing pleases me better than the singer,” retorted Camilla. 

Why was she moved to speak thus? She never knew. 

“Excuse me a moment.” He quitted the seat, made his way to 
the stage, and led the cantatrice away, amidst renewed applause. 

“ She sang Willy’s song to flatter us all, of course. Odious creat- 
ure!” said Mrs. Monteith. 

“Do you mean that your brother set those words to music, and 
Steinbach selected the song for an encore ?” demanded Camilla. 

She felt a strange contraction of the heart. The words of the bal- 
lad still chimed in her brain wearily and monotonously, as the mo- 
tion of the railway train keeps pace with the meditations of the trav- 
eller. “ When first we met we did not guess. ” What did it signify 
that William St. Nicholas had left her, to lead the prima donna from 
the stage? 

‘ ‘ I may have expressed my fears as to where his musical procliv- 
ities may lead him,” continued Mrs. Monteith, in a tone of unfeigned 
dissatisfaction. ‘ ‘ Ah, Miss Belt, be thankful you have no brother 
to watch over, with so many artful women setting traps for him, 
and trying to circumvent you at every turn. ” 

“ So many?” queried Camilla, doubtfully. 

“I tremble to think of Willy’s falling into the clutches of this 
dim ,” added Mrs. Monteith, in a confidential undertone. “She 
sang that song to make him lead her off the stage, of course. I won- 
der what she finds to say to him in the waiting-room. ” 

What the Steinbach was saying to William St. Nicholas at the 
time, with a strange light in her blue eyes, was, 

“ So you have not forgotten me?” 

‘ ‘ I have to thank you for the honor you have done me in singing 
my poor little song, ” he replied. 

She again gave him her hand, with that royal air which she could 
not readily put aside in private life. 

“I have been to Brazil and Mexico and Cuba. I find the song 
waiting to welcome my return,” she said, in her softest accents. 
* £ Come and sup with me at eleven to-morrow night. They have 
decked me with jewels, like a barbarian queen Id bets, and given me 
parrots and monkeys.” 

He bowed, half unwillingly, and gazed into the blue eyes. Why 
should he not go? Was he the slave of any other woman’s caprice? 
Resentment spurred disinclination. 


TULIP PLACE. 


157 


What the Steinbach thought in that brain of hers — at once frivo- 
lous, shallow, and terribly worldly wise in all cunning — where she 
stored every item of town gossip, was : 

“There was one in the audience not of my world, a girl with 
straight eyebrows and a high nose, who can buy the respect of all, 
for she holds a fortune such as we queens of song seldom reap. The 
American was beside her. It would be something to boast of in my 
old age that I took him away.” 

Wliat the Steinbach did was to detain him, with coaxing and im- 
perious words and gestures, holding her favorite poodle, exchanging 
cards with the Norwegian violinist, just arrived, cloaking and con- 
ducting her to her carriage, in preference to any other cavalier, until 
the orchestra had crashed through a final brilliant fantasia, and Mrs. 
Monteith had accepted the services of a friend to find her carriage. 

“We cannot expect a musician to keep his head for all the emer- 
gencies of life,” said the sister, with outward amiability and secret 
rage. “William is perfectly wild about that Norwegian violin- 
ist.” 

Camilla Belt laughed, and slowly gathered up her draperies. Mrs. 
Monteith observed her anxiously, but her brow remained unclouded. 
Had she not just won a needlework prize, the gilded ball suspended 
on the highest branch of the Christmas-tree of similar gifts. The 
night was chill, and Camilla felt it through her furs. A frozen rain 
was falling, rendering the pavement glassy. 

“ Is that Miss Belt?” The voice was low, yet it reached her ear, 
as she placed her foot on the carriage step. 

Camilla turned her head. A girl, wrapped in a faded shawl, 
stood near the curbstone, and a pale, shadowy face, with glittering 
eyes, looked at her out of the darkness. A boy was endeavoring to 
draw her away, plucking at her gown, whimperingly. 

“Is that Miss Belt,” the thin voice repeated. 

The words must have been an echo, for the speaker was gone be- 
fore Camilla had seated herself in the carnage. She was accustomed 
to a certain amount of public curiosity, yet the pale face and glitter- 
ing eyes rose again before her with a sort of menace, and sent a thrill 
through her veins. 

William St. Nicholas hastened to join the ladies, with apologies 
for his delay, which were received sweetly by his sister and noncha- 
lantly by Camilla. 

“ We forgive you, my dear,” said the former. “I knew the Nor- 
wegian violinist would entrance you.” 

‘ ‘ Of course you have heard Poniowsky, ” said Camilla, with a 
movement of her gloved hand suggestive of concealing a yawn. 

“I found Steinbach delicious,” pursued Mrs. Monteith, smoothly. 


158 


TULIP PLACE. 


“I could detect no evidence of her voice being worn, and she is cer- 
tainly still a fine-looking woman.” 

“Why should her voice he worn?” demanded William St. Nicho- 
las, a trifle dryly. 

“ She must be incredibly old,” said Mrs. Monteith, as if pursuing 
her own train of reflections. “These singers only come to us as 
wisps of debutantes, or when they have exhausted the European 
market. Papa’s friend, Mr. White, declares he was in love with 
Steinbach twenty years ago, when he was a Leipsic student.” 

William St. Nicholas made no reply. He sat opposite Camilla 
Belt, with his whole soul in revolt against her presence there, and 
further irritated by his sister’s criticism. Had Mr. White admired 
the Steinbach twenty years before in Germany? Was her beautiful 
voice the least shade worn? He resented having the billows of Ca- 
milla’s satin _ dress envelop him, and the perfume exhaled by her 
fan displeased his senses, while she leaned back in the most remote 
corner of the vehicle. Light and shadow from objects passed chased 
each other swiftly across the carriage, whose occupants wore a mask 
of conventional restraint, rather than of unrestrained gayety. 

Said the Abbe Fenelon : 

“ We may be near to each other and not meet, 

And far apart in the same room.” 

Mrs. Monteith prattled on, artlessly, about Steinbach. Why should 
she not discuss the singer of the evening? She wondered if the diva 
would die singing, like Malibran. She indulged in conjectures as 
to whether she took the yolk of eggs and sugar to preserve her vocal 
ligaments from hoarseness, or ate two salted cucumbers to obtain a 
metallic clearness of tone, after the method of the Swedish tenor La- 
bath, or preferred snuff and lemonade. She was conscious of some 
change in Camilla. The easy patronage which might have once 
served to lead her with a silken thread was no longer possible. 

“ She is beginning to feel her own power,” thought the daughter 
of the house of St. Nicholas. “ She has the right. The plainer her 
origin the more likely she will be to assert her ten millions. Ah, 
money does everything in these days. What blundering creatures 
men are.” 

Each was relieved when the moment of separation came. 

Mrs. Monteith did not pour the vials of her wrath on her brother’s 
head when left alone with him. Perhaps she feared to launch into 
speech. She shot one little arrow of sarcasm at him at the door. 

“Wonders will never cease, Willy ! You have made Camilla 
Belt play second fiddle to a pack of low musicians to-night. ” 

“You should not have invited her,” he retorted, sharply. “She 
cares nothing about music.” 


TULIP PLACE . 


159 


He plunged into meditations on the step he had taken in accepting 
the invitation of a siren to sup with her on the following evening. 
The face of Steinbach gazed up at him from a sheet of music on the 
table, with her veiled glance. His own features became sombre, 
cynical, wrathful. Some strange and inexplicable discontent troubled 
him. In sheer disgust at the feeble and flimsy elements of his own 
sphere he determined to henceforth devote himself more closely to 
his favorite study. The priestess of this temple of music was the 
singer who had invited his worship with bewitching coquetry. He 
accepted the challenge, from which he had shrunk the previous year, 
with eagerness, exultation, and defiance of the judgment of Tulip 
Place. Let the consequences be what they might, he would attend 
the supper-party. He resumed the composition of his operetta. 

The following morning Camilla Belt received two letters by the 
post. She examined the writing, in either case unfamiliar, then 
opened, and read the contents, with a face expressive of surprise 
and annoyance. The first missive, in pretty, feminine characters, 
ran thus : 

“Miss Belt, — You have everything heart can wish for, and yet 
you take the bread out of the mouths of poor girls by competing 
with their work. May the prize of two hundred and fifty dollars 
swell your wealth as the ugly gold Madonna has your vanity.” 

Camilla’s eyes flashed, and she crushed the paper in her hand. 

“What impertinence!” she exclaimed. 

It was her first experience of an anonymous communication. She 
was astonished, even enraged, that the mail could have brought this 
winged shaft to her door. 

The second note was addressed on coarser paper, in a less firm and 
legible hand. The pen had trembled in the grasp of unsteady fin- 
gers, the sheet was marred by several blots and erasures. Camilla 
read : 

“Miss Belt, — Can wrong always rule? Oh, if you knew all, 
would you care? No, you will not care! You are very far away. 
Why should you? I am in debt for the table-cover, and must go to 
the pawnbroker’s. You did not know there was such a man, did 
you? The prize-money can bring you no luck, as God is just.” 

Camilla uttered a cry, and threw the second letter across the room. 

“I will not stand such things,” she exclaimed, and stamped her 
foot on the floor. 

Aimee placed the two letters on a card-dish. 

Indignation transported the high-spirited Camilla. What! Her 
golden Madonna was pronounced ugly by one rival, who took ref- 


160 


TULIP PLACE . 


uge in an anonymous sneer, and unjust by another. She had 
wronged these unknown and envious ones by excelling them. The 
first effusion was evidently the petulance of disappointment; the sec- 
ond an appeal for charity, no doubt. Camilla steeled her heart 
against both. She was not to be moved in that way. She put the 
matter aside, as a tliorn-prick, unworthy of her notice, and therefore 
to be dismissed with lofty magnanimity. These two correspondents 
would gain nothing. 

She returned to art, pushing aside the wools and embroidery in 
turn. She performed a duet on the two pianos with Aimee, and re- 
membered afterwards that the skilful fingers of her companion did 
not trip through scale and chord as nimbly as usual, while she 
evinced a disposition to lag in the matter of time-keeping. Next, she 
resumed the task of shading Minerva’s helmet in the study of the 
plaster cast, working with commendable perseverance and in abso- 
lute silence. At the expiration of two hours she rose suddenly, had 
herself attired for the street, and said to Aimee, 

“ Come!” 

They walked to the office of the needlework exhibition. Camilla 
inquired if the other articles still remained, and was informed that 
they had been left on sale by the disappointed contestants for the 
prize. She examined each specimen, as if intent on criticising de- 
sign and execution. She was striving to wrest from plush, canvas, 
and silk the secret of her two letters, after her own fashion. The 
articles had been numbered in the office, while the registry of names 
in the ledger afforded no clew to the identity of her correspondents. 
She had wronged the patient fingers that had wrought all this work. 
She had crushed the spirit of the workers by the intrusion of her 
old-gold brocade, splendor tending to render shabby^ the other fab- 
rics. If her conscience was stung and her heart moved, her face 
remained stern and resolute. 

“I will take them all,” she said, at length, and had the price of 
two hundred and fifty dollars affixed to each article. 

There was a little stir through the showrooms as Camilla wrote a 
check for the requisite amount. 

“I wish them all, mind!” she stipulated. 

“Very well, Miss Belt,” said the manager. 

Returning home, she embraced little Aimee. 

“ Voild! Now our consciences are at rest,” she said, with re- 
stored good-humor. 

Aimee bowed her head, and yielded to sudden tears. She had no 
reason to give for such weakness and despondency. Her dreams had 
been bad the previous night. The little hypocrite feared the Aunt 
Marthe might be ill. Camilla was so good to her! Yes, too good. 


TULIP PLACE. 


161 


That night William St. Nicholas returned home at ten o’clock, hav- 
ing dined at a club with the Norwegian violinist. His mood was 
easy and gay, as he made those changes of toilet indispensable to 
supping with a siren. He had entered the house by means of his 
latch-key, without seeking his mother to bid her good-night. At 
half -past ten he departed again, with equal stealthiness. Why 
should he bid his mother good-night? 

As he closed the door a man approached him. The man was 
bareheaded, and proved to be one of the Belt servants. The mes- 
senger was about to ring the bell. 

“ It’s from Miss Belt, sir,” he explained. 

Mr. St. Nicholas took the visiting-card, on which Camilla had 
written these words in pencil : 

“ Come to me immediately, and do not tell your sister.” 

The recipient read the line by the light of the street-lamp, and in- 
voluntarily uttered a subdued whistle of surprise. What could Ca- 
milla Belt wish with him? He consulted his watch, turned the card 
irresolutely between his fingers, and reflected a moment. 

‘‘Does Miss Belt require to see me to-night?” 

“ If you please, sir.” 

He followed the servant without further opposition. Perhaps he 
was dimly conscious that a crisis in his life had come, detaining him 
in Tulip Place when his errant footsteps were about to carry him 
far from the familiar locality. 

The siren sat at her supper-table, spread with flowers and fruit, 
awaiting the favored guest who did not come. Her yellow tresses 
were braided with pearls, soft laces enveloped her shoulders and arms, 
a rose nestled in her corsage. Laughter and wit animated the com- 
pany, champagne sparkled in brimming glasses, but William St. 
Nicholas was not of the number. 

11 


CHAPTER XIY. 

A PAIR OF TURTLE-DOVES. 

“ A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coat-of-arms." 

“Lady Clara Vere de Vere.” 

William St. Nicholas wondered what unusual event had oc- 
curred to make Camilla Belt send for him at half-past ten o’clock at 
night, with that sly additional hint about not telling his sister. Co- 
quetry might lead some girls to take the measure, but he could 
not flatter himself Camilla was likely to extend such an overture to 
him, of all men. 

He followed the messenger in silence. Donald Belt did not greet 
him on the threshold with his customary ponderous hospitality. 
Mrs. Belt’s delicate face was not visible, brought into fine relief by 
the rich hangings of some portiere. The interior of the house 
was well lighted, warm, and very still. The servant explained that 
master and mistress were absent at a dinner-party and reception. 

The spaniel, Turco, inspected the visitor gravely from the door- 
mat, and wagged his tail. 

Camilla advanced to meet him, her brow contracted, and her man- 
ner preoccupied. She inclined her head slightly, and apparently for- 
got to offer him her hand — a circumstance which fully restored his 
own equanimity. She was in trouble of some sort, and looked to 
him for aid. 

William St. Nicholas always remembered Camilla’s appearance 
that night. She wore a gray dress, fastened with steel buttons, and 
a linen collar. Her chestnut hair was coiled in a knot at the back 
of her head, and curled low over her forehead, imparting a harmo- 
nious outline to her features. He noticed with satisfaction that her 
hands were devoid of rings, while the solitaire diamonds, so much 
resembling glass in their purity, no longer sparkled in her ears. He 
preferred the gray robe to the sunflower costume. 

Camilla led the way to the small blue room, glanced about cau- 
tiously, and closed the door. Then she approached her visitor, and 
said, 

“ I sent for you. That was my first thought.” 


TULIP PLACE. 163 

He extended his hand, and took her fingers in a warm and soft 
clasp. His face glowed. 

“I am glad you sent for me — to-night.” 

Camilla scrutinized him with grave attention, and gently with- 
drew her hand. 

“You are glad I sent for you to-night?” she repeated, slowly. 

The echo of his own words displeased him. 

“Consider me at your service, Miss Belt.” 

“At my service!” she retorted, opening her eyes with a gleam of 
amusement. “ I fear I count for little in the whole affair. They 
are gone. They have flown away like a pair of turtle-doves. Ah, 
what fools they are ! One must scold a little, still one cannot help 
laughing. ” 

“They? Who?” he questioned, with a sudden suspicion dawning 
on his mind for the first time. 

“ Your nephew and Mademoiselle Aimee Rauvier. She went out 
to pay a visit this afternoon, and told me she might stay to dinner. 
The wicked Russ! I dined alone in consequence. Oh, you need 
not pity me, I rather liked it. At eight o’clock I sent over to the 
house of Aimee’s friend, and, behold! she had not been there. I was 
frightened about the child, for she never quite liked our independent 
ways of walking alone. There seemed to be nothing to do but to 
wait. Only a few moments ago this wretched little note jumped at 
my very eyes, in moving a book. It had been there on the table for 
hours, I suppose, without my noticing it.” 

She tendered the letter to him, adding, with a smile, 

“Pray take the arm-chair, Mr. St. Nicholas. The reading of it 
may be too much for you. ” 

He complied, and Camilla drew up a second chair, waiting until 
he should have finished the perusal before again speaking. 

Aimee’s epistle was composed in English, and interspersed with 
all manner of little French exclamations of hope and despair. They 
had been married by the Baptist minister on the Tenth Avenue, and 
gone away together in the American manner. They were very 
young, and the step taken was rash, wicked, most imprudent, only 
they loved each other. Such was the refrain of the letter— they 
loved each other. The phrase recurred in every fresh appeal for 
forgiveness, with pathos, ingenious reiteration, and a certain defiance 
of irrepressible joyfulness. They had loved one another since the 
ball, when Willy Monteith had begged a flower of the Edelweiss 
maiden. They were willing to work, if they need not be separated, 
and they were so happy ! 

All this, and much more, which had moved Camilla to a certain 
wondering and wistful sympathy, did not move William St. Nicho- 


164 


TULIP PLACE. 


las in the least. His face acquired unwonted gravity as he folded 
and returned the note without immediate comment. 

The dog Turco sat between them, turning his head from side to 
side, with a comical expression of canine wisdom, to glance at one 
and the other. 

“I suppose a boy like Willy must be expected to fall in love 
sooner or later,” he said, at length. “I wish it had been anything 
else, though.” 

“Perhaps you would prefer an entanglement with some actress to 
marriage with little Aimee,” flashed out the defender of the bride. 

William St. Nicholas colored slightly. 

“ This elopement will break his mother’s heart,” he said, stiffly, 
and weighing in his hand an enclosed envelope, addressed to Mrs. 
Monteith, in her son’s familiar writing. 

“Ah! I sent for you to inform her,” resumed Camilla, speaking 
with a nervous rapidity that betrayed her concern. “You will know 
how to manage. You must not permit her to think ill of little 
Aimee, though.” 

“I fear every one will think very ill of Mademoiselle Rauvier,” he 
rejoined, with unnecessary severity. 

“As you do,” she supplemented, quickly. 

“ As I do,” he assented. “ The Edelweiss maiden, in spite of her 
protestations to the contrary, seems to have kept her head, in this 
emergency. ” 

“ Of course you believe she inveigled your nephew into a mar- 
riage,” said Camilla, indignantly. 

“Her most serious fault has been not taking so kind and gener- 
ous a mistress into her confidence,” he said. 

Camilla was silent a moment, and bit her lip. 

“Perhaps little Aimee would have spoken if I had given her a 
chance,” she said, sudden passion kindling in her eyes. “I have 
taken no notice of her of late. I have been cheating myself with 
shadows, and catching at straws. Do you know what I have done, 
Mr. St. Nicholas? Won a prize, and raised a wail of woe from my 
sisters of the town. What is right, I wonder? To obliterate one’s 
self, perhaps.” 

The dog rose, as if in protest to the sentiment, whined, placed his 
fore-paws on her knees, and looked up into her face. She took 
Turco’s head between her palms, and smiled. 

“ I always believe in you, Turco,” she said. 

William St. Nicholas regarded her with interest. Camilla Belt 
expressing confidence in the fidelity of a dog, as if setting aside hu- 
manity, seemed to him unique, and worthy of speculation. He for- 
got the siren, seated at her supper-table, a bewildering vision of yel- 


TULIP PLACE. 


165 


low hair, heavy-lidded eyes, pearls and laces, the smoke of a cigarette 
escaping from her lips, in the little blue-room of the Belt mansion, 
which was cold and conventional in comparison with the luxurious 
disorder of the diva's surroundings. The crystal chandelier shed a 
ray on the azure hangings which was frosty in its gleam, and thence 
on Camilla, in her gray dress, with the linen collar. This interior, 
deemed ostentatious by a fastidious disapproval on a previous occa- 
sion, gained dignity in his eyes, deserted save by this central figure, 
the daughter of the house. 

“You are fond of your dog, Miss Belt,” he said, with a smile. 

“Turco has saved life,” she rejoined. “If we should fall into 
stormy waters he would save us. Would you not, Turco?” 

Thus addressed, the spaniel quitted his mistress, walked over to 
William St. Nicholas, and began to lick that gentleman’s hands with 
exuberant affection. 

“How odd!” mused Camilla. “He does not like strangers, usu- 
ally. Come back to your mistress, sir.” 

“Perhaps he does not consider me as a stranger,” suggested the 
visitor. * ‘ I am fond of animals. They always know when you be- 
lieve in them.” 

Camilla regarded him in turn, noting that he had 

“Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and flue, 

High nose, a nostril large and flue, and hands 
Large, fair, and flue.” 

“ Turco may have some difficulty in rescuing us from the troubled 
waters of our present dilemma,” she resumed, recalling him to their 
common subject of interest. “What is to be done?” 

They discussed the circumstances of the elopement, and of the 
newly wedded pair having gone to Philadelphia, until the clock struck 
a silvery chime of midnight. William St. Nicholas had once more 
leaned back in his arm-chair, and looked at Camilla. Irresolution 
was expressed by his gestures, while his face became animated, and 
his eyes acquired a new brilliancy. The sudden change in his de- 
meanor troubled Camilla. She recalled, with unnecessary warmth 
of remorse, her ungracious bearing at the concert. Why had her 
temper been so perverse? She had been absolutely rude about the 
selection of music. He must have deemed her without a soul at all. 

“So they fell in love with each other at the flower ball,” he re- 
peated, reverting to Willy and Aimee. 

“Yes,” assented Camilla. “Aimee is a lady, and a very good 
girl. The Aunt Marthe educated her as few of our girls are edu- 
cated. Your sister will have every reason to be proud of her pretty 
daughter-in-law.” 


166 


TULIP PLACE. 


He was following another train of reflection. 

“We did not keep step very well, I remember,” he said, ignoring 
the commendation of the bride. “What an awkward dancer you 
must have found me, and cross, besides. I cannot imagine why 
Strauss went better — ” 

Camilla rose, to check his words. 

“Let us score off your ill-humor at the ball against mine of the 
concert, then. We are birthday comrades, are we not?” 

Allusion to the ball wounded her. She regarded him steadily, 
and the light died slowly out of his face. 

“I need not detain you longer, Mr. St. Nicholas. You pardon 
my sending for you?” she continued, and her tone became more icy, 
her smile more forced. 

“ Surely I pardon it,” he replied, collecting himself with an effort, 
and rising reluctantly in turn. 

Then he went away, leaving Camilla restless, unhappy, and dis- 
satisfied with the recent interview. 

One door closed, in the stillness of midnight, on Tulip Place; a 
man crossed the street, and entered the opposite house, and a second 
portal made a dull echo as he was admitted. The incident was triv- 
ial in the daily events of the spot; the results were momentous and 
unforeseen. 

Mrs. Monteith was seated before the library fire, talking with her 
father. She had just returned from the theatre, and, with her bon- 
net-strings unfastened, was describing a famous tragedian. When 
her brother looked at her, the humane impulse to grant her the res- 
pite of a night’s sleep before she learned the worst news possible 
for her maternal ear to hear inspired him, as letter and telegram are 
sometimes withheld by a merciful third person. The blow would 
crush her. Willy’s elopement would prove a true calamity. 

“Where is my boy?” demanded the unsuspicious mother. “I 
have not kissed him to-day.” 

William decided that further evasion would protract her anxiety 
and broke the tidings as gently as possible. Mrs. Monteith read 
Willy’s note with feverish eagerness, and went into hysterics. 

Sleep did not visit the St. Nicholas mansion that night. Mr. St. 
Nicholas was bewildered and unnerved; Mrs. St. Nicholas, aroused 
from her first slumbers, joined the family group in the library, en- 
veloped in flannel, and tremulous with fright and indignation. The 
night sheltered a devoted and wronged mother, whose grief was an 
overwhelming emotion, impossible to allay or reason with by any 
ordinary measures of condolence. 

Mrs. Monteith threw herself on the floor, where she lay, a long, 
black figure, and beat her head, while wild and frenzied lamentations 


TULIP PLACE. 


167 


escaped her lips. Oh, that the child had never been born ! Oh, that 
her Willy, her darling, had died in his first infantile malady! 

“Alice!” reproved her father, distressed and helpless. 

Yes, even death were better than being inveigled into a miserable 
marriage with the French girl. Her parents and brother looked on 
sympathetically, almost in silence, until the first paroxysm of anger 
and sorrow should have expended its force, their own dismay over- 
shadowed by Mrs. Monteith’s supreme agony. The boy had deceived 
and outwitted her, his own mother, prompted by the baleful in- 
fluence of Aimee. She always suspected these demure little minxes, 
who glide into families as companions, only to lure the sons to ruin. 
The Belts were to blame. Camilla Belt must have known of the at- 
tachment. 

“I will never forgive her!” cried the mother, with quivering 
features and flashing eyes. 

William St. Nicholas raised her to her feet, with masculine im- 
patience of scenes. 

“Don’t be too childish, Alice!” he said, holding her by the arm. 
“Consider mamma a little.” 

Mrs. Monteith, thus recalled to her duty, first gave her brother a 
resentful glance, and then bent over the little shrivelled figure, 
wrapped in flannels, beside the fire. 

‘ * Mamma, you held him on your knee when he was a baby, and 
now he has run away from us with a — a — ” her voice broke, choked 
with jealousy and passion. 

Old Mrs. St. Nicholas sighed, and shook her head, taking the fever- 
ish hand of her daughter in her own shrivelled ones. The regret of 
age, surprised at nothing evil, and perhaps a little doubtful of devel- 
opment of good, contrasted with the fierce despair of Mrs. Monteith. 

“ His father was like him, you know,” she said, ruminatingly, and 
with a touch of asperity in her harsh voice. “Perhaps you would 
have eloped together if we had thwarted you, Alice. The girl is a 
foreign creature, too. Ah me! none of my family, or your father’s, 
ever ran away with a companion — no, no! The other, Camilla Belt, 
will never marry, mark my words! How does she bear it?” 

“ She seems to bear it remarkably well,” said William St. Nicho- 
las, with animation. 

Old Mr. St. Nicholas paced the floor, pale and agitated. 

“You are sure the marriage is legal?” he inquired. 

His son made no response. Mrs. Monteith started. 

“ Oh, let us follow them!” she exclaimed, her features haggard in 
the dawn. 

“ What is the use?” retorted William, sententiously. “ They are 
married, and they have not given their whereabouts.” 


168 


TULIP PLACE. 


Mrs. Monteith sank down into a chair, and burst into tears. She 
had lost her boy, and all the tears in the world would not restore 
him to her unchanged. The lovers were fleeing through the hours 
of darkness, on the train, looking into each other’s eyes, whispering 
confidences without end; Willy radiant and triumphant, Aimee 
trembling and contrite, yet both ready to brave the unknown future 
together. 

Such were the developments of the night when the musical 
amateur was to have supped with a celebrated singer. Tulip Place 
had, indeed, held him captive. 

The following noon Camilla Belt received notification from the 
superintendent of the needlework exhibition that one competitor had 
been overlooked. Mary Fox had withdrawn her work, a table-cover, 
before Miss Belt’s liberal offer had been made to purchase all the 
prize articles. If Camilla was inclined to extend the same generosity 
to Mary Fox, the superintendent would be glad to inform her, as the 
girl was very poor. 

“Yes!” assented Camilla, unhesitatingly. 

Two hours later the messenger returned with the information that 
Mary Fox had refused to accept the money, the table-cover being no 
longer in her possession. Camilla, shocked and disturbed, reread 
the two anonymous letters. She paused long over the blurred and 
badly written sheet. 

“Iam sure Mary Fox wrote this one,” she said aloud. 


CHAPTER XY. 

MARY FOX, INVENTOR. 

“ Bound am I to right the wrong'd “ Gareth and Lynette.” 

William St. Nicholas arose at noon next day, and penned a note 
of apology to Steinbach. The task accomplished, he read the sheet, 
and tore it up, with a contemptuous movement of dismissing the 
matter. 

His heart was strangely light and courageous, despite the elope- 
ment of his nephew, and the sorrow of his sister. The interview 
with Camilla Belt, of the past evening, had ameliorated the situation. 
In his own mind he was disposed to regard the escapade of Willy, 
the younger, with more than his usual tolerance of the follies of his 
kind. 

He had admired Camilla excessively the previous evening, and 
liked to consider her interposition, at a critical moment, as that of 
destiny. The random shaft of her indignation as concerned actresses 
still tickled his fancy. She believed in the honest affection of a dog. 
If she could be persuaded of human sincerity as well. He glanced 
out of his window, hoping to behold her at the opposite casement, 
but the curtains were closely drawn. Ah, why did not Camilla 
smile at him across the way, if only in friendly recognition of their 
interview of the previous night! He could not feel sad in the atmos- 
phere of family gloom, for there was a new and inexplicable joy in 
his heart, stirring to fresh life and purpose his whole being. He 
did not venture to question himself as to what the true source of 
this delight and wonder might be. Had the secret spring existed 
all these months, and he remained ignorant of the true cause of his 
irascible moods, despondency, and dissatisfaction with all previous 
pursuits? His anger had been uncontrollable when he had learned 
of Camilla’s engagement, and yet, withheld by a curious phase of ob- 
stinacy, he would not have raised a finger to avert the doom of such 
separation. He had attended the wedding ceremony inspired by a 
restless fury of curiosity to note every detail, masked beneath a 
cynical philosophy of outward demeanor, and had beheld the bride 
descend the stairway with a sudden coldness of heart impossible to 
describe. Ah, fool, and blind! he had been bitterly jealous of the 


m 


TULIP PLACE. 


Count Della Stella, for he loved Camilla. Now that he permitted 
his sober judgment to approve of her course of the previous night, 
the flame of passion, so long pent up, leaped forth, dazzling and 
blinding his confused faculties. Yes, he loved Camilla, without 
reason or premeditation, and he would make her love him, in re- 
turn, if he could succeed in winning her. He was prepared to wait 
patiently. His love should remain safely locked in his own breast 
until such time as she gave him leave to speak. No person must 
profane by discovering it. He glanced shyly about him as if to 
judge if the portraits of the musicians grouped on the wall divined 
the truth, or the instruments would breathe forth in magical har- 
monies, like the strain of an iEolian harp, the wondrous tale. He 
reverted to the operetta of the birthday, so ruthlessly discarded, in 
wrathful mood, and found the fresh charm of wedding-bells in the 
measure. What would Camilla think of it? 

The Belts had learned of Aimee’s flight on their return the previ- 
ous night. The extreme displeasure of Donald Belt led him to 
write a note to Mr. St. Nicholas at an early hour. Mrs. Belt had 
remained passive and meditative. Possibly Aimee gained a new 
interest in the estimation of the older woman, but her sympathy re- 
mained hidden, at least in the presence of her stern husband. Since 
the postponement of Camilla’s marriage stepmother and stepdaughter 
had relapsed into their former relations of mutual indifference. 
Mrs. Belt had devoted her time once more to the fashions and society. 
She gave Camilla an enigmatical glance, occasionally, but made no 
comment on her pastimes. 

In the dawn Mrs. Monteith sobbed herself to sleep, with the aid 
of a sleeping-draught. 

At noon Camilla put aside the letter she felt convinced had been 
written by Mary Fox, to respond to the summons of her father. 

“Perhaps we had better call, Camilla,” he suggested. “It can do 
no harm, you know.” 

“Yes,” she replied, with alacrity. 

Waiting in passive inaction was alike insupportable to parent and 
child. Mrs. Monteith could do no more than refuse to receive them. 
All appearance of complicity in the clandestine marriage of Mademoi- 
selle Rauvier was particularly vexatious to Donald Belt. It would 
have gone hard with the trembling little bride had she encountered 
the irritable gleam of the banker’s gray eye, just then, as her most 
inflexible judge. What right had she to entrap the grandson of Mr. 
St. Nicholas into matrimony? The chances were that Donald Belt 
would relegate a penniless girl to a far more obscure position, as 
keeping to her proper sphere, than the injured family on whom she 
had intruded her unwelcome self. He was most desirous to wash 


TULIP PLACE. 


171 


his hands of Aimee in the presence of the St. Nicholas household, 
and especially of the aristocratic old gentleman who had dined with 
him. 

Mrs. Monteith excused herself from receiving the Belts. She had 
attired herself in the deepest mourning, as of one recently bereaved, 
and remained in the seclusion of her own rooms. Her parents ful- 
filled the duty with scarcely more satisfactory result. Mr. St. Nicho- 
las turned away, peevishly, from giving some orders to a gardener, 
concerning his tulips. Mrs. St. Nicholas sat in her accustomed 
place, with the latest journal unopened on her knee. The family 
dignity was maintained by the old couple, and froze the intruders 
with a sense of the utter failure Qf their mission. Mr. St. Nicholas 
listened, with frigid politeness, to the explanations and excuses of 
Donald Belt, and eut short the latter’s flow of speech at the precise 
point where reproaches of Aimee’s course would have merged into 
condolences on the rashness of Willy, with a blank and uncompre- 
hending stare through the icy glimmer of his spectacles. Mrs. St. 
Nicholas rendered Camilla uncomfortable by her courtesy. The old 
lady inspected her visitor with interest, and persisted in conversing 
on irrelevant topics, the church of St. Jerome, the needlework ex- 
hibition, the unreasonable weather. There was no possibility of a 
younger woman’s approaching the subject of the elopement, and de- 
fending the bride, with this rigid little person, the embodiment of an 
old-fashioned gentility. 

William St. Nicholas exerted himself in vain to render the call 
agreeable, and was rewarded by a glance of amusement from Camilla, 
as if she divined his anxiety to conceal the hostility of his relatives. 
He escorted the Belts to the door, and shook hands with them, in- 
fusing unusual warmth into his own manner. 

“You were most kind to take the trouble to come,” he said, beam- 
ing on the nettled Donald Belt, but looking at Camilla. “ My sister 
is not quite herself, you understand. She will be delighted to re- 
ceive you another day. May I bring you the news, when my grace- 
less nephew again writes?” 

“ To be sure,” assented Donald Belt, heartily. 

Camilla made the slightest possible grimace, and averted her 
face. 

William St. Nicholas returned to his parents, slowly rubbing his 
hands together, and with an expression of countenance that was ab- 
solutely sarcastic in ill-humor. 

“It must be something new in Miss Belt’s experience to be re- 
ceived on sufferance, and especially when her errand is one of kind- 
ness,” he remarked, in a dry tone. 

His father paused in his walk up and down the length of room. 


172 


TULIP PLACE. 


“The girl is well enough,” he said, sharply. “We do not need 
the blundering sympathy of Mammon.” 

‘ ‘ I am glad to have seen her, ” chimed in Mrs. St. Nicholas. ‘ ‘ She 
is plain enough, in all conscience, but she has not a bad face. Her 
chin reminds me of — ” 

“Mamma, I see a telegraph messenger coming round the corner!” 
exclaimed her son. 

“O Lord! you don’t say so, my dear! A telegram always sets 
me all of a quake and a tremble. It was the despatch from South 
America that killed your Aunt Harriet, the shock was too much for 
her, in her delicate state of health. ” 

William St. Nicholas had spoken the truth, for the messenger was 
already ringing at the door. The despatch was from the bridegroom 
of a day. Willy had sailed for Europe, from Philadelphia, on a 
steamship of the Bed Star line, and would await reconciliation with 
his family at Geneva. 

The news brought fresh woe to the darkened chamber where Mrs. 
Monteith had yielded to tragic brooding over the cruel conduct of 
her petted child, ignoring that his very course might be the natural 
result of her extravagant maternal indulgence. She had been pre- 
pared to send him away, when he came to her door, in suitable 
contrition of spirit, to beg forgiveness. She had rehearsed an entire 
line of bearing as regarded wretched and deceitful little Aimee. She 
was wholly unprepared, however, for the step taken by the lovers in 
sailing for Europe, and her grief was redoubled, necessitating sum- 
moning the family physician. Sorrow, with the tall and pale 
daughter of the race of St. Nicholas, was not the silent snow of a 
secret anguish, but rather the overwhelming deluge of a tropical 
tempest, bringing havoc of -distress and disorder to an entire house- 
hold. 

Fain would the brother have escaped, acting on the spur of im- 
pulse, from the darkened chamber, the scent-bottles, the shrieks and 
lamentations of his beloved sister, the prosy condolences of the old 
people, and carried the telegram to the scarcely less expectant Belts. 
A volume of explanations surged to his lips in this momentary 
separation from Camilla. He must see her, and in showing Willy’s 
message do his best to smooth away the unfavorable impression 
produced by his family during the recent call. Good heavens! 
Could intercourse with Camilla never be rendered sweet and tran- 
quil? Must there always be some fresh thorn springing up in the 
pathway between the two houses? Need some cold current of ad- 
verse influence always sweep over their two souls at a moment of 
mutual expansion and softening? He determined to put a stop to 
these things. The audacious step of Willy, the younger, in marrying 


TULIP PLACE. 


178 


Aimee, was the shuttle binding together such opposite elements as 
the two families on Tulip Place. 

“Alice, pray control yourself,” he said, for Mrs. Monteitli was 
clinging to his arm, as she lay on a sofa. “If you can forget your 
own sufferings for a moment, consider how fearfully you are up- 
setting mamma. ” 

Mrs. Monteith swept the lace pocket-handkerchief from her dis- 
figured countenance, sat upright, and looked at him with melancholy 
reproach. 

“You do not appreciate the feelings of a mother’s heart,” she 
gasped, faintly. 

“Very likely not,” he retorted. 

“William considers that we received Mammon badly just now,” 
said Mr. St. Nicholas, in a captious tone. 

His fresh and delicate face appeared pinched and crabbed ; he was 
aggrieved and incensed by the behavior of his grandson, who, indeed, 
was captivated by a pretty face as he had been at the same age. He 
was too old to be disturbed by such disagreeable surprises; he had 
been robbed of his sleep, and his digestion was impaired. 

Mrs. Monteith, in one of those changes of mood always possible 
to a highly strung temperament, ceased to weep, and the ghost of a 
smile crossed her features. 

“You must make my apologies to the Belts, Willy,” she said, 
meekly. “Iam sorry they have not been well received.” 

“I will make it all right with them,” he rejoined, reassuringly, 
and patted her on the shoulder. 

When he rang the bell of the opposite house it was only to learn 
that Camilla had gone out. He was unaccountably dismayed by the 
intelligence. Why had he not come before? In his perturbation, 
foiled in the confidences he found it absolutely essential to make as 
regarded his nephew, he was reluctant to return home, and therefore 
walked away in an opposite direction. > v 

A cheerful voice greeted him. 

“ How you are getting on with your music? Eh?” 

The speaker was the German Jacob Wertheim, whose house Will- 
iam St. Nicholas was in the habit of frequenting, in the study of 
counterpoint. The professional musician drew the amateur along 
with him, while he unfolded to him the scheme of an overture he 
had just composed on the meeting of the rivers. 

“I shall be glad to learn your opinion of my work,” said Jacob 
Wertheim, withdrawing a step, and nodding energetically at his 
pupil. 

The latter accompanied him to the brick house which Camilla had t 
once seen him enter. Here William St. Nicholas was greeted with ‘ 


174 


TULIP PLACE. 


much cordiality by Mrs. Wertheim, a buxom and smiling woman, 
while a flock of little Wertheims embraced the knees of the new- 
comer with infantile confidence. 

The musician seated himself at the piano, in the fluffy little 
parlor where he gave lessons, shook back his long hair, and soared 
away on the wing of fancy to the ideal world of his own compo- 
sitions. 

William St. Nicholas paced the floor, listening attentively. 

A prelude of heavy notes signified the presence of the sea, while 
the prevailing harmony emanated from the Rhine, as a tribute on the 
part of a loyal son of Fatherland. 

“It is not too much like Handel’s Water Music — eh? Here, my 
friend, we have the majestic tide of the Mississippi. The pianoforte 
has not sufficient scope for the subject. We need the entire range 
of the orchestra, from the deep bass of the sea to the most fairy ut- 
terance of the chorus of water-spirits on the first violins. You un- 
derstand?” The composer swayed his body about, while his thin 
and flexible fingers traversed the keyboard. 

“ Are the water-spirits American fairies?” queried the critic, paus- 
ing at a window. 

Jacob Wertheim shook his head. 

“No! No! They must lurk in the shadow of Drachenfels and 
Bingen,” he replied, seriously. 

“ Why should there not be water-spirits lurking about the bayous, 
and — snags of the Mississippi, as well, dwelling in friendly com- 
munion with the alligators and catfish?” inquired William St. Nich- 
olas. 

The musician stared, laughed, and resumed his theme in a rapid 
and undulatory measure. 

“This is the St. Lawrence,” he proclaimed, triumphantly. 

William St. Nicholas uttered an exclamation of surprise, quickly 
suppressed. t Camilla Belt approached on the other side of the street. 
She was alone, and entered the house on the corner. What could 
she be doing over there? He stood there, absorbed in his own med- 
itations, while the Amazon rolled a sonorous measure to join the 
Rhone and Tiber. He astonished and piqued the composer by de- 
manding, abruptly, 

“Who lives in the house on the corner?” 

“ Several poor families, ’’said the musician, glancing discontented- 
ly over his shoulder. 

“ Tell me about them,” insisted the other. 

“Down-stairs there is a shoemaker not quite right in his head,” 
said Mrs. Wertheim, knitting busily. “ The first floor is closed, and 
up-stairs there is the large family.” 


TULIP PLACE. 175 

The sea grumbled a few chords, and William St. Nicholas re- 
lapsed into silence, only to resume, later: 

“ What of this large family, then?” • 

“The man drinks too much. Himmel! He is gone!” and Frau 
Wertheim dropped her ball of wool on the floor, in her surprise. 

William St. Nicholas had snatched up his hat, and darted out of 
the house, without uttering a word of excuse. 

The musician rounded his shoulders above his ears, and spread his 
hands over the keys, like claws, in an attitude of dejection. 

“Iam sure he finds my symphony like the Handel Water Music,” 
he sighed. 

Camilla had quitted the St. Nicholas house holding her head high. 

“I wish we had not gone at all,” was her comment to her father, 
accompanied by a flush of resentment. 

Later, she went out, without explaining her intentions to any one. 
She missed Aimee, but she must accustom herself to the loss. Per- 
haps she, also, accused the bride of ingratitude, in her own mind, as 
she took her way to the needlework exhibition show-rooms. Why 
had Mary Fox refused to accept the prize-money? Where did the 
girl live? She obtained the address without difficulty, and the cir- 
cumstance that the defrauded competitor dwelt on the very margin 
of the original Belt estate aroused an additional interest in the quest. 
Unconscious of the presence of William St. Nicholas in the home of 
the mugician, she had entered the abode of Charles Fox, ascended 
the stairs to the third story, and knocked on a half-opened door. 
She remembered the young woman who had once emerged from here. 

A boy answered the summons, and stared at her in silence. She 
recognized the lad who had stood beside her carriage on the night of 
the concert, and plucked at the shawl of his companion, striving to 
draw her away. Could Mary Fox have said that all things change? 

A girl crouched over the stove in one corner of the room. Her 
cheeks and hands were burning with fever, while her teeth chattered 
with cold. She was wrapped in a blanket and bed-cover, for addi- 
tional warmth. 

Two men shared the place with the boy and girl, one very old, and 
the other middle-aged, shambling, and smelling of whiskey. 

Camilla was moved by the squalid poverty of this room, unrelieved 
by an article of comfort, and unadorned by a single flowering plant. 
Hope had no place here. She experienced a sort of wonder rather 
than sympathy. She seemed to have turned her gaze downward to 
the level of earth, and discovered a new range of objects never before 
noticed, and the contemplation rendered her thoughtful. Poverty 
had been a vague term all her life to Joseph Belt’s granddaughter. 


176 


TULIP PLACE. 


She had not been educated to think much of the poor. Subscrip- 
tions to the contribution-list of well-established charities had been 
the silken glove wherewith Donald Belt and his family touched grim 
and unsightly want. 

. “I wish to see Mary Fox,” said Camilla, crossing the threshold, 
and speaking in her usual clear and resolute tones. 

“You can’t,” retorted the boy Jem, promptly. “ She’s sick.” 

“What ails her?” demanded Camilla. 

“ I don’t know,” said Jem. “ She’s stupid, anyhow.” 

The visitor entered the room, and touched Mary on the shoulder. 
The two men observed her in wondering silence. Yes; the face was 
the same. 

“You are Mary Fox. Very well. I think you wrote me a letter. 
Never mind all that, now. I have come to help you,” said Camilla, 
kindly. 

Mary, fever-scorched, and shivering in her wraps, contemplated 
her dreamily. 

“What is the good?” she questioned, in a reedy voice. 

“You see, ma’am, she’s out of sorts, and needs a little doctoring,” 
broke in David Fox, discerning a benefactress. “ She’s caught cold, 
likely. A good gal, our Mary, mum.” 

Charles Fox, with less perspicacity, muttered thickly, 

“Be you the dressmaker? Mebbe you owe her more.” 

Camilla bent over the girl, compassionate, in her own strength, of 
the feeble and shrinking form. 

“You must let me have your table-cover,” she continued, in a 
soothing tone. “I am Miss Belt.” 

There was a momentary silence in the room. Mary Fox regarded 
the stranger with the shadow of a frown gathering on her pinched 
face. 

“Joseph Belt’s grandchild?” cried David Fox. 

“ Yes,” wonderingly, and a little haughtily. 

“Donald Belt’s daughter?” stammered Charles Fox. 

“Yes,” still more wonderingly, as she glanced from one to the 
other of her interlocutors. 

The old man burst into a peal of shrill senile laughter; the younger 
uttered a coarse oath. The girl Mary, continuing to frown, as if to 
recall her wandering thoughts, said, 

“ Go away! We don’t need your money. Money! Ah!” 

David Fox tottered forward, and clutched the astonished Camilla 
by the arm, peering into her face, his own features convulsed with 
excitement, and actually clinging to her for support. 

“Joseph Belt’s granddaughter. He-he! That’s good. So you’ve 
come to give us back our own; have ye?” 


TULIP PLACE. 177 

“What do you call your own?” asked Camilla, shaking herself 
free of his touch, with a shudder of repulsion. 

“ Show her our bit of land from the winder, boy,” he hissed and 
mumbled, supporting himself against the wall, and continuing to glare 
at Camilla, with impotent and malevolent rage. 

His passion kindled the anger of his son, as a torch may ignite a 
heap of loose hemp. 

“That’s ours, every foot of it,” added Charles Fox, in a kind of 
snarl, while a dangerous gleam came into his bloodshot eyes. 

He indicated the buildings of the Belt property with a large and 
unsteady hand. 

Camilla turned to Mary Fox again. She was not going to betray 
a cowardly fear of these men. She did not clearly understand their 
wrongs, and found them evil, ignoble, hideous. 

“My grandfather acted as he thought best, in his day,” she said. 
“ Your daughter needs a doctor, and must go to bed.” 

Charles Fox gave vent to another oath which made the boy Jem 
start uneasily. 

“You roll in gold while my girl pinches, slaves, and starves!” he 
shouted, transported by fury at her coolness. “Curse you! I’ll 
teach Joseph Belt’s spawn to come spy in’ in on us, and payin’ the 
hush-money to their conscience of a little charity.” 

Camilla stood erect and undaunted before the infuriated man. 
Could he mean to strike her? 

At this moment the door was flung open, and William St. Nicho- 
las appeared. He pushed Charles Fox aside, and approached her 
quickly. 

“I will teach you to touch Miss Belt, you dog!” he said, in a low 
tone of menace. 

These changes occurred so swiftly that Camilla had no leisure to 
realize her danger before it was over. She had walked into the jaws 
of peril without being aware of it; her errand one of charity. She 
was more amazed and perplexed than terrified. 

The entrance of William St. Nicholas aroused Mary Fox from the 
torpor that was rapidly stealing over and benumbing her faculties. 
She looked at him steadily, and a smile of ineffable sweetness dawned 
on her wasted features. The saints and martyrs of ancient Christian 
art, who lift their gaze from the ignoble strife of life about them to 
the vision of some cloud-horizon, have the same expression of wist- 
ful and wondering contemplation. 

“Jem; that’s him,” she whispered. 

The boy Jem, sulky and indifferent to all else, understood. 

William St. Nicholas did not once glance at her, He drew Ca- 
milla away, intent only on her safety. 

12 


178 


TULIP PLACE. 


“In the name of Heaven what are you doing here?” he exclaimed, 
when they were outside, and descending the narrow stairway to- 
gether. 

He looked at his companion anxiously, to ascertain if she had suf- 
fered any stain from contact with the Fox abode. Camilla’s mouth 
acquired its most whimsical curve. 

“I came to buy a table-cover, and I mean to have it yet. First, 
we must call a doctor for that poor girl. I want the boy to come 
with us, please. ” 

‘ ‘ Camilla ! What right had you to risk coming alone to this den ?” 
He made the demand impetuously, imperiously, pausing before her 
in the narrow hall. 

Her face changed; a little quiver of emotion swept over her feat- 
ures, as if in response to his change of tone. 

“I must have known that you were near,” she whispered, raising 
her eyes to his. 

What a noble face was that of William St. Nicholas, as seen in the 
mean and dark hall, strong and tender in solicitude for her safety, 
and eloquent of something more which made her heart tremble in 
her breast with an incredulous joy, almost akin to awe. 

They stood there, for a time, face to face, soul meeting soul, in 
swift recognition, and because the thoughts of William St. Nicholas 
had surged within brain and breast all day, when opportunity for 
speech came his lips were dumb. 

Poor, dazed Charles Fox had spoken truth. For the girl above- 
stairs, pain, trouble, fruitless labor, soured by the disheartening fami- 
ly discontent; for the girl pausing in the narrow hall below, joy, 
protection, and lotfe. All for one, and none of life’s blessings for the 
other. 

“Please call the boy,” repeated Camilla. 

Jem appeared with alacrity. He knew the store where the table- 
cover had been sold, and volunteered further information about the 
pawn-ticket for Mary’s sewing-machine. The family pride was sad- 
ly diluted with Jem. The prejudice which had led Mary to thrust 
aside the helping hand extended to her, because it belonged to Ca- 
milla Belt, found no echo in the hungry greed of the boy. Camilla 
sent him back for the pawn-ticket. 

“Did you ever visit a pawnbroker?” she inquired of her com- 
panion. 

“No. Allow me to go with Jem,” he entreated. 

Camilla shook her head. 

“I have wronged this poor girl. I should like to see a pawn- 
broker with my own eyes.” 

The table-cover was found, and purchased, to the manifest relief 


TULIP PLACE. 


179 


of a philanthropical shopwoman. Camilla gave a duplicate sum to 
Jem, who stowed it away in his pocket. Next they sought a dirty 
and noisy street, and Jem enlivened the walk by talking about his 
sister. Mary was always making things, with bits of wood and wire, 
just like a boy. She had something in a box, now, to move looms. 
Camilla and William looked at each other. 

“ She must be an inventor,” he said. 

The pawnbroker welcomed them to his kingdom, as a student of 
human nature, disposed to scepticism as to the object of their visit. 
He was a dusky man, who seemed to have acquired coloring from 
his surroundings, the wreck of poor households, the odds-and-ends of 
bankrupt merchants, the harvest of gambling dens and bar-rooms. 
Callous to despair, and indifferent to human misery, no amount of 
imagination in Camilla could render him other than he was — the 
New World equivalent for the London “my uncle,” and the Pari- 
sian “ ma tante.” The sewing-machine was still there, but the pawn- 
broker opined the lady and gentleman were tracing some stolen ob- 
ject, or in pursuit of the pledged chronometer of the scapegrace of 
their family. He had received such calls before. 

Camilla placed her hand on the article, and, stooping over it, read 
the name engraved on the plate, 

“The Belt Sewing-Machine Co.” 

The blood rushed to her brow. She redeemed the machine, and 
sent it back to the owner. Jem was dismissed, with further in- 
structions as to the physician and care of Mary Fox, who had 
been apathetic ever since the rejection of her work by the prize 
competition. 

The weather had changed, and the rain was falling. Camilla re- 
fused to have a carriage ordered, or to avail herself of a public con- 
veyance in regaining Tulip Place. She opened her own little um- 
brella, and declined the shelter of her companion’s larger one. 

“My grandfather invented that machine, Mr. St. Nicholas, ” she 
said, mockingly. * ‘ Perhaps you have heard of the fact before. I 
think it my duty to adopt the machine. My crest shall be a shuttle 
rampant, and a needle volant in argent, with a monogram, in a chap- 
let of encircling roses. ” 

He made no response. They were in sight of Tulip Place, and as 
they crossed a wide thoroughfare the wind wrenched away Camil- 
la’s toy umbrella, completely reversing it. The rain, charged with 
hail and sleet, swept in a cloud around the corner, rendering their 
footing difficult. 

“ Perhaps you will consent to share my umbrella now,” said Will- 
iam St. Nicholas, with quiet authority, and drew her to his side, 
placing her hand within his arm. “United we stand.” 


180 


TULIP PLACE. 


“ And divided we certainly fall,” slie added, laughing, and bending 
her head before the blast. 

Oh, delicious and unforeseen opportunity! A sudden thrill of de- 
light swept over the soul of William St. Nicholas, a longing to speak, 
and be understood by the one woman in the world who existed for 
him. 

“ Camilla, I love you,” he whispered, eagerly, pausing there in the 
shelter of the umbrella. ‘ ‘ I must have always loved you, without 
knowing it, but you should have known. They say a woman is 
never deceived in such matters. Oh, Camilla, what right had you — ” 

“ Hush!” she interposed, with a pale face, and the look in her eyes, 
turned on him, for a moment, checked the torrent of passion rising 
to his lips. 

Pain was awakened in her heart by the change in him. She asked 
herself, with a benumbing sense of loss and regret, how she was to 
have known William St. Nicholas cared for her. She saw in the 
whirling mist of rain and snow, obscuring Tulip Place, the ghost of 
another day, the mocking wedding-guests not gathered to do him 
honor, a bride with hands outstretched to grasp emptiness, a little 
page who sulked because there was no fun. The man beside her 
was noble, good, and would cast the mantle of his own magnanimous 
protection over that pitiable and shameful past, even as he had 
shielded her to-day. He was worthy of better things. Her whole 
nature was abashed, humiliated, wrung by the torture of listening to 
him. 

Mistaking her silence, in his own agitation, he bent over her. 

“Say one word to me before we part. I will be patient. I will 
wait, until you give me leave to speak, only I must have all or 
nothing, Camilla. ” 

“Nothing, then, ’’replied Camilla, gazing straight before her, and 
the sleet swept in a cold gust in her face, as the phantom wedding- 
guests fled away down the length of Tulip Place, leaving the bride 
mute, white, and desolate. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE HORSE, SULTAN. 

“ A steed to fear.' 1 ' 1 

One week later the sun rose in unclouded splendor over the city 
of New York, dispersing the early vapors of dawn, and causing the 
casements of adjacent towns to sparkle across an intervening space 
of waters. The world had once more awakened to labor and re- 
joice, to suffer and despair, all in the span of man’s little hour of 
strength. 

In Tulip Place the spaniel Turco, strolling about the premises, 
looked in on the horses with the amicable bearing often observable 
among quadrupeds. The stables of Donald Belt were admirably 
built and well appointed. The new horse, Sultan, recently pur- 
chased by the master, fretting at the restraints imposed on fiery tem- 
perament and vicious instincts by the narrow limits of stall, turned 
his graceful neck to gaze at the dog. 

Within doors Mrs. Belt considered the resetting of some dia- 
mond stars, with her head held slightly on one side, and the bright- 
ness in her eyes which the sight of jewels only evoked. It was a 
strange and cruel light, coming and going fitfully. She loved her 
gems, and would gaze for hours at the rosy sparkles smitten from 
brilliant and ruby by the sunshine, as if lost in some intoxicating 
reverie, or half -fiercely and defiantly, as one who grasped some eva- 
nescent satisfaction from possession. 

Camilla went about listlessly, with a pale and preoccupied bear- 
ing. In the morning her face was worn, as if from late vigils. Was 
it possible she still brooded over the departure of the Count Della 
Stella? The stepmother pondered over Camilla’s altered mien. She 
had written to the count, and received a reply couched in the lan- 
guage of a poetical despair. Again Mrs. Belt had been moved to in- 
dite a guarded missive, holding forth the hope of making a journey 
to Europe at no distant date, when they might again meet. To this 
last communication there had been no response. Mrs. Belt was puz- 
zled, affronted, and a little frightened. She dreaded that the tiny 
wax taper of her own indiscretion might have kindled some vast 
conflagration beyond the limit of her ken. 


182 


TULIP PLACE. 


Camilla gave no sign, and yet she was troubled, elated, and doubt- 
ful in a breath. At times her face grew tender, as, in soft reveries, 
her heart went out to the neighbor across the street in fullest ac- 
knowledgment of his claim upon her fidelity and devotion. Then 
her nature recoiled upon itself, and suspicion awoke to torment her 
dreams. She had passed him by before all the world, her eyes 
blinded, her senses dulled by pride and vanity. She had preferred 
a carpet-knight of the ballroom. Was William St. Nicholas a man 
to wait humbly in the gate? She shook her head and sighed, re- 
penting the rashness of her folly. It was too late! Yet he had al- 
ways cared for her. Marvellous revelation ! 

Delations with the St. Nicholas. household remained unchanged. 
Mrs. Monteith refused to see Camilla Belt, but began to evince inter- 
est in sending messages to her by her brother. The latter acquitted 
himself creditably of the mission, as well as the duty of looking 
after Mary Fox in her illness. Did he take any undue advantage of 
these claims on a mutual interest to frequent Mrs. Belt’s little bou- 
doir, charming that lady by his affability? Did the secret, not suf- 
fered to escape the barrier of his lips, flame from his eyes, piercing 
the senses of Camilla like a lightning flash, and setting her pulses 
throbbing as no man had ever stirred them? Donald Belt detained 
the younger St. Nicholas to dinner, and was surprised to find how 
exactly their ideas agreed on politics and the turf. What more suit- 
able than that the daughter of the house should stroll through pict- 
ure-gallery and conservatory with the guest afterwards, when, in the 
intervals of discussing Mary Fox and her invention, the blended 
fragrance of the flowers and the musical drip of the fountain 
seemed to speak for both? This was life! 

Mrs. Monteith reclined on her sofa, with a handkerchief, delicate- 
ly scented, spread over her face. A state of invalidism was insep- 
arable to her grief over the marriage of her son, and she still re- 
mained in her own rooms. Each morning she electrified her family 
by her nightmare visions of the night, when she saw her boy at the 
mercy of the sea, now among icebergs, and again a prey to marine 
monsters. The safety of pretty Aimee did not concern her mater- 
nal bosom. 

“ Did you dine with the Belts last night, Willy?” she inquired of 
her brother, in languid tones. 

“ Yes,” he replied, with marked animation. 

“ Of course there can be no news yet. You must act as you see 
fit, but I never intend to resume intercourse with the Belts.” 

“My dear Alice! you cannot be in earnest,” he exclaimed, in 
unfeigned consternation. 

“ Associations would be too painful,” sighed Mrs. Monteith, but 


TULIP PLACE. 


183 


she looked at him covertly, from behind her handkerchief, to note 
the effect of her words. 

He uttered an ejaculation of indignant protestation, then paused, 
as if a prey to some embarrassment, and joined his father at the 
window. 

The horse Sultan had paused before the opposite house, attached 
to a light trotting- wagon with yellow wheels, and a seat in the rear 
for the attendant groom. The superb animal, symmetrical in form, 
with small head, sinewy flank, and slender, nervous limbs, dropped 
foam on his sleek gray coat, from the curbing bit, and pawed the 
pavement in his impatience to take the road. 

“That is a' devil of a horse,” -commented old Mr. St. Nicholas. 
“ Where did Donald Belt find him, I wonder.” 

“ Blue Grass, with a strain of Arab blood, I should say,” respond- 
ed William, abstractedly. 

He was not intent on admiring the fine points of Sultan, nor in 
speculating on the animal’s pedigree. He was angered by his sis- 
ter’s caprice of dislike to the Belts, and wondering if the sentiment 
were worthy of notice. Of course his own preference was an un- 
fathomed spring, safe in his breast, and wholly unsuspected by his 
family. 

Tulip Place long remembered the issuing forth of Donald Belt, 
hale and florid in his vigorous maturity, pausing on the curbstone 
to draw on his gloves and make some criticism on the harness. 
Every detail of gathering up reins and whip, and the springing off 
of Sultan at a long, swinging pace, acquired importance in reminis- 
cence. 

The bays of William St. Nicholas were drawn up at the same 
moment, and as he drove away, at a far more leisurely pace, his con- 
science reproached him in the matter of having quitted Jacob Wer- 
theim, in the midst of the symphony of the rivers, without a word 
of apology. 

“ Poor fellow! I forgot all about him. I will take him to drive, 
and we will discuss publishing the music,” he soliloquized, turning 
in the direction of the Hudson River. 

Life and death were abroad in the town, moving hand in hand. 

As William St. Nicholas approached the familiar locality, a hum- 
ble funeral was quitting the shabby brick house on the corner. 
Mary Fox had entered upon her rest, her pillow smoothed by the 
awkward yet affectionate touch of the boy J em, and the ceaseless 
prayer of her fevered brain having been the petition, ‘ ‘ Give the box 
to him, Jem, and never to her.” 

Mr. St. Nicholas checked his horses with genuine contrition. 

‘ ‘ I forgot her, too, ” he murmured. ‘ ‘ God forgive me ! The doc- 


184 


TULIP PLACE. 


tor sent word last night that she was sinking fast. Poor girl! She? 
needed nothing, and why should Camilla be needlessly distressed? 
Surely Mary Fox was nothing to her.” 

The fever of a few days attacking the brain ; work, exposure, in- 
sufficient food and clothing, borne without complaint. Such was 
the verdict of medical skill, the neighbors, maudlin Charles Fox; 
but surely there was something more, a moment when expiring hope 
admitted disease without resistance, possibly as a deliverer. 

All for the girl in Tulip Place and nothing for the other, cradled 
on the margin of the Belt property, and forced to contemplate her 
family’s wrong for her entire span of existence. Stay ! All for Ca- 
milla? 

The horse Sultan was traversing the avenues of the Park, now 
moving with the rapidity of an arrow and again stepping slowly, 
nostril quivering and eye glancing from side to side, starting at his 
own shadow. Was there another shadow keeping pace with the 
equipage, and first recognized by the keener animal instinct? 

Donald Belt experienced an exhilarating sense of power in guid- 
ing the restive steed, and accustoming him to soothing words and a 
firm will. The nervous restlessness of Sultan tantalized and piqued 
him. He longed to mount the animal and dominate equine caprice 
by means of spur and bit. A stretch of level white road beyond 
town limits tempted the master to expend the fiery mettle of Sul- 
tan. A vagrant crouched in the hedge, binding up his bruised foot 
with a rag, and cursing the stones of the highway where he had 
limped many miles, a creature, outcast of the town, and repulsed in 
turn by the country, brutalized, wretched, ignorant, yet having his 
uses. 

William St. Nicholas, reining up before the door of the neglected 
musical genius, was surprised by the sudden approach of the boy 
Jem, who thrust a small box into the gentleman’s hand and darted 
away again without a word. 

Jacob Wertheim clambered into the carriage, and consented to 
converse about the river symphony, in token of forgiveness, as they 
drove away in the direction of the Park. William St. Nicholas 
evinced his remorse by urging an immediate publication of the 
work, when it should be performed at the musical club of which he 
was president. Jacob Wertheim grasped his hand and beamed on 
him through his spectacles. Whereupon the amateur, with becom- 
ing modesty, broached the subject, in turn, of his operetta of the 
birthday, a communication received by Herr Wertheim with none 
the less sympathy that he doubted the capacity of the composer. 

“ Love works miracles, however, and I perceive our friend here 
has fallen in love,” thought the disciple of Sebastian Bach. 


TULIP PLACE. 


185 


On the white and level road the vagrant glanced up and beheld 
Sultan stepping towards him at a gingerly pace, shining wheels re- 
volving slowly, Donald Belt gazing down on his brother of the dust 
from his high seat, the attendant groom perched behind, with folded 
arms and supercilious mien, after the manner of his class. 

The vagrant scowled beneath his shock of matted hair, then 
grinned. A diabolical impulse prompted him to bring low the pride 
and strength of Donald Belt, a man whom he did not know, yet 
hated with an unreasoning ferocity. 

“ Hey, my beauty!” he shouted, and waved his ragged boot in the 
air. 

Down by the hedge a squat form, half human and half bestial, un- 
familiar to Sultan’s ken ; and sudden movement, the stretching forth 
of a misshapen member, boot uppermost; all this sufficed for the des- 
tined end. The horse snorted, swerved, bolted. 

There was a startled exclamation from the master, a cry from the 
groom, then a wild rush of flying hoofs and streaming mane, as Sul- 
tan, maddened by his own liberty, bounded forward, holding the bit 
between his teeth. Ruin followed swiftly in the wake of elegant 
symmetry on the level road ; the light wagon swayed from side to 
side in the train of the horse, then fell, with wreck of broken shafts 
and wheels scattered far. The groom, hurled to a distance, lay mo- 
tionless in the ditch, while Donald Belt, with the reins wound tight- 
ly about his hands and wrists, was dragged at the heels of Sultan, 
the leather bonds by which he had sought to guide and restrain 
proving his own destruction, until, spurned in turn, he remained ex- 
tended on the highway, an inert mass. 

The vagrant rose and slouched after, pouncing on the prostrate 
form of Donald Belt with the instinct of a bird of prey, and proceed- 
ing to rifle him of watch and coin. 

“ Ay; lie there, my man!” he muttered, spurning the millionaire 
with his foot, and gloating over the unexpected booty. 

William St. Nicholas and Jacob Wertheim were approaching from 
an opposite direction at a leisurely pace, conversing together in am- 
icable vein about the divine Mozart, the fiery Liszt, the mighty Mey- 
erbeer. They had gained the level stretch of white road without 
taking too much heed of their surroundings in the absorption of a 
favorite subject, when they became aware of a flying horse coming 
towards them, dragging a man, entangled in the reins and harness, 
at his heels. 

“Good God!” ejaculated William St. Nicholas, with some swift 
premonition of the man’s identity. 

“ Gott in Himmel!” echoed Jacob Wertheim. 

Then both were silent, awaiting a shock which seemed inevitable. 


186 


TULIP PLACE. 


The bays snorted and plunged, trembling in every limb, as if scent- 
ing the frenzy of that comrade whose hoofs beat the ground with 
frightful regularity and rapidity, as he swept down upon them, shed- 
ding some fresh fragment of the debris of his trappings.at every step. 
On and on came the thunder of the beating hoofs, and the very air 
seemed hushed to listen, the twigs of the hedges to whistle in the 
flight of that bounding shape, panting, quivering, but spurred for- 
ward by fear of the creature lurking under the bushes, to mock and 
flout with hoarse cries. 

For a moment the occupants of the other carriage were forced to 
contemplate the magnificent spectacle of the horse in a wild state, 
untrammelled by guidance, fit bearer of the gods on earthly errand 
intent, or of the mystic brothers twain, eyes launching flames, and 
nostril expanded to snuff the breeze of fresh danger; then the man 
was cast aside in the road, and Sultan, rushing onward, came in 
sharp collision with the bays, pierced his foaming breast with the 
pole of the vehicle, and fell. 

William St. Nicholas had sprung out of the carriage and hastened 
to the aid of the fallen man. He did not heed the dragging down of 
one of the bays by the rude shock of Sultan’s approach, and he 
scarcely saw the tramp, for he was intent on raising the head of 
Donald Belt. 

The vagrant hobbled off, but his triumph was short-lived, for swift 
justice overtook him in the form of a suspicious policeman. 

An accident, or the perpetration of a crime, draws humanity to- 
gether to gaze, wonder, and gossip, with such magical swiftness as to 
suggest rising through the ground. Thus William St. Nicholas was 
speedily surrounded by an ever-increasing crowd as he knelt in the 
road, aided by Jacob Wertheim, and supported the head of Donald 
Belt, until such time as suitable conveyance could be obtained, and 
medical judgment pronounce that the master still lived, while the 
groom was dead. 

The afternoon was wearing to a close when Camilla entered the 
room where Mrs. Belt was seated, matching some startling colors 
with her own complexion, in morsels of silk and velvet sent to her 
by a Parisian modiste. New colors interested Mrs. Belt, and 
whether copper-green, the hue of a boiled lobster, or of a crushed 
strawberry, she was moved to experiment, and meditation as to re- 
sults. 

Camilla had been talking with a boy in the hall who had begged 
to see her. Jem, dazed and still sobbing, the house strangely empty 
and void at home, now that all was over, had obeyed the impulse of 
seeking Miss Belt and communicating the tidings of Mary’s fune- 
ral, purposely withheld by William St. Nicholas. Camilla had com- 


TULIP PLACE. 


187 


forted the boy as best she could, and told him to bring her the sew- 
ing-machine. She wished to own it. 

“ I am going to take care of that family,” she said, moving about 
the room with her hands clasped. “ The old man would be better 
off in some home for the aged, and the boys must be separated from 
their drunken father. Jem should learn a trade, and the younger 
boy go to school in the country.” 

She approached the chimney-piece, glanced at the clock, and add- 
ed, thoughtfully, 

“ Father is late.” 

The clock struck, and the last silvery chime died away in silence. 
A cold shadow crept into the room, felt simultaneously by the two 
women. They looked at each other. Mrs. Belt rose to her feet, 
scattering the bright silks on the floor. Her face became blanched 
and ghastly, she pressed her hands to her breast and cast a startled 
glance about her. 

“ Oh, what is it?” she cried, in a piercing voice. 

Why did Camilla spring to her side and reply? 

“Don’t be frightened, mamma,” she whispered, passing her arm 
around the shrinking figure. 

William St. Nicholas stood in the door, and outside, in the street, 
there was noise, confusion, and the slow, jolting rumble of heavy 
wheels that paused. 

Camilla steadied her fainting pulses and sinking heart by an ef- 
fort, and extended her hand. 

“ What has happened?” her white lips framed the question, me- 
chanically. 

“There has been an accident on the road,” he replied, quietly. 
“Pray calm your apprehensions, ladies. The matter might be 
worse.” 

“ Yes,” said Camilla. “ The horse Sultan. I know.” 

Mrs. Belt cowered in an arm-chair with a convulsive sob of terror, 
and hid her face in her hands. Camilla went out to the entrance- 
door to meet her father. William St. Nicholas and the others made 
way for the daughter of the house, after one glance at her resolute 
face. 

It was the rumor of this home-coming which had reached the 
soul rather than the ear of the wife, in some swift and sickening 
presentiment of evil. 

Tulip Place knew that the vigorous man of the noonday was be- 
ing brought home a shapeless heap of crushed humanity. Tulip 
Place knew that the horse Sultan would never return, having been 
shot after he fell pierced by the pole of the St. Nicholas carriage. 
That which Tulip Place did not perceive, as belonging to the ele- 


188 


TULIP PLACE. 


ment of insignificance, was a vagranlr in a prison cell, deprived of liis 
plunder, the watch and chain, yet hugging his rags in the darkness, 
with hoarse laughter at the work he had done. Were not those 
two supperless as well as he? Only those powers of good and evil, 
God and Devil, witnessed the conflict of the prison cell, and gave no 
sign. 

In the Belt mansion dismayed faces peered in every door, and the 
movement of grave physicians, solicitous friends, and flurried ser- 
vants pervaded every room. Already the pavement of the street 
had disappeared beneath the muffling cover of tan, while the hushed 
stillness of the interior contrasted strangely with the cautious ce- 
lerity of flying messengers, doing the bidding of William St. Nicho- 
las, whose authority was absolute. Then came the terrible suspense 
of waiting, while the doctors gathered about the couch of the insen- 
sible man, and doors were closed. Camilla, waiting on the landing, 
was aware of some movement in the hall below. The voice of Will- 
iam St. Nicholas said, with marked impatience, 

“ This is no time for such folly. Take it away again.” 

Camilla dragged herself to the spot. The light of the great tulip- 
shaped hall lamp flickered on Mary Fox’s sewing-machine. Ca- 
milla looked at it with a wild impulse to laugh and to weep, but 
the sound died away in her throat. 

“Leave it,” she said, to the defiant Jem. 

Did Mary Fox, in some shadow of the invisible border-land, wit- 
ness the scene? 

“Surely she would think it my turn,” mused Camilla; and, re- 
tracing her steps, resumed her weary vigil, waiting outside her fa- 
ther’s door, where the dog Turco came and licked her cheek. 

Oh, the anguish of the waiting! When midnight struck the mo- 
ments seemed to have stretched to years since Donald Belt came 
home. In the bed lay a twisted shape, and Mrs. Belt stood on one 
side of the couch, while Camilla occupied the other. 

“Camilla, never marry unless you love your husband,” sighed 
Mrs. Belt, her voice the merest echo of the silent chamber. 

Camilla glanced at her stepmother, with a slight shudder. 

“No! oh, no!” she answered. 

“I have hated him,” continued the older woman, pointing to the 
still insensible man extended between them. “He has given me 
everything I craved in my silly vanity, and, O God! how I have 
hated him!” 

William St. Nicholas entered the room, approached Camilla, and 
took her hand. She looked at him in an agony of appeal. 

“Is he going to die?” her eyes repeated the question of her dry 
lips. 


TULIP PLACE. 


189 


He shook his head reassuringly. 

‘ ‘ The doctors hope he may survive. ” 

The pallor of her face deepened, and Camilla fell, fainting, at his 
feet. He raised and held her closely in his embrace. 

Such was their betrothal, as life and death passed hand in hand 
through the crowded ranks of the town. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
IN THE SPRINGTIME. 


“ Owe will walk this world 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end , 

And so through those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows ." — “The Princess.” 

“Another spring! I have lived to see tlie leaves again come 
out, and the flowers once more bloom,” said old Mrs. St. Nicho- 
las, seated in the window of her morning - room, newspaper in 
hand. 

She spoke with the same contentment which characterizes the house- 
wife of North Germany and Denmark when the stork returns from 
his winter flight to the warm countries, to build a nest on the chim- 
ney. 

The magnolia had opened its snowy chalice in the adjacent court- 
yard, the purple wisteria spread clusters of blossoms over the iron 
trellis of the balcony of the house of the watcher, whose pale face 
was visible at the casement; and down the length of street the square 
where William St. Nicholas had rescued the emigrants on a bleak 
winter day was now an oasis of tender green foliage, set in the midst 
of the bricks and mortar of the town. 

Then Mrs. St. Nicholas would put on her bonnet, with the brisk 
announcement : 

‘ ‘ I will just step over and inquire what Mr. Belt thinks of the 
news from China this morning. ” 

The chances were she would meet her husband, intent on the same 
errand, with one of his finest tulips cut to show the invalid. 

The tan had been removed from the street, and the casements of 
the Belt mansion were again open to the sunlight. Donald Belt had 
survived the accident, but it was to be henceforth helpless and frac- 
tured, cut off from active life, with twisted and useless limbs, tend- 
ed by his wife. His daughter he could spare, but the eye of the 
sick man sought constantly the presence of his wife, as reader, nurse, 
attendant ; and she yielded to, nay, eagerly anticipated, every whim. 
Old Mrs. St. Nicholas, more than any other, held the clew to this re- 
morseful devotion, and turned a fresh page in the history of Tulip 
Place, half confessed by Mrs. Belt, and half divined by her mature 


TULIP PLACE. 


191 


sympathy. The vision of the past was the beautiful niece of the 
rough tavern-keeper, where Donald Belt stopped over-night, a girl 
disdainful of her surroundings, by reason of the marvellous tales 
told by her own looking-glass, and only half responsive to the mad 
passion of the handsome blacksmith she was to marry on the mor- 
row. There had been no temptation of dazzling flattery, for Don- 
ald Belt had not known she was under the same roof, while she had 
looked and listened, then matured her scheme, seated on the garret 
stair, while all the house slept. This man could give her wealth and 
ease, her beauty would shine resplendent if he willed it so. In the 
dawn she followed a path through the woods to the next station of 
the railroad, and when Donald Belt was on the train she had risked 
all to touch him on the shoulder, and murmur some wish to sit be- 
side him, not liking the manners of her companion in the car. Don- 
ald Belt had turned his head, and looked up into the pure face and 
starry eyes which had so often puzzled other observers since by their 
surface softness of appealing timidity and latent depths of audacity. 
The moment was a critical one. He was returning to the renewed 
admonitions of his father to again marry. What if he brought back 
a bride? The sequel should have been brilliant, and was not. The 
babies had died, the husband’s admiration cooled, and in the back- 
ground had lurked a threatening shape of revenge — the injured lov- 
er, taken to drink at the tavern where first he had seen her, and 
promising to search the country over to find her. In what form? 
The hair of Camilla’s stepmother had grown white in the suspense 
of watching for this dreaded fulfilment. Did he still live? Had he 
died? She dared not ask or seek, while a fancied resemblance, even 
now, would make her blanch and tremble. Too weak to sustain 
the power which she had grasped, she was equally unable to retract, 
and thus lived, counting feverishly her jewels, uncertain, irresolute, 
and defiant of fate. 

Tulip Place indulged in criticism of the attitude of the old couple, 
finding the engagement of William and Camilla ample reason for 
their interest in the opposite house. In reality the accident of Don- 
ald Belt had far more influence oh both at the time. 

Easter had been duly celebrated at the church of St. Jerome, 
where the pensive assistant acquired fresh interest in the eyes of the 
feminine portion of the congregation by being announced to have a 
leaning towards the doctrine of Molinos, the Quietist, and Rome. 

Professor Vincent Ashwell had returned to England, charmed 
with his visit to America. Colonel Crosbie Ellery King had been 
ruthlessly banished, by an inexorable executive, to a western fort, 
and Captain Rawdon to the South Pacific. Samuel Hardinge, jilt- 
ed by the Myosotis maiden of Camilla’s flower ball, was making ar- 


192 


TULIP PLACE. 


rangements to enlarge the Bachelors’ Club, and was understood to 
disapprove of the elopement of Willy Monteith even more than the 
young gentleman’s mother. 

Mrs. Monteith, during the period of her temporary withdrawal 
from society, had found relief in wielding again her pen, not, in- 
deed, in the field of sentimental fiction, but in satire of a withering 
power. Willy had announced his intention of becoming a teacher 
of languages at Geneva, if his mother did not fully accord him per- 
mission to present Aimee in Tulip Place. Mrs. Monteith’s reply 
must have been of an unsatisfactory nature, for his next letter de- 
veloped a plan of retiring to a chalet in the high Alps, and tending 
the herds of a cheese farm. The devoted mother cast aside her pen, 
which was involving her in a controversy on a social question, and 
took the next steamer for Europe, as bearer, in person, of the olive- 
branch of peace. 

In the springtime Fanny Hopper appeared as a radiant vision of 
youthful freshness, in the lilac dress alone rendered possible by Ca- 
milla’s prize-money. The young lady manifested extraordinary re- 
luctance about accepting the payment. 

‘ ‘ I have said and done such mean things about the gold Madon- 
na,” she demurred. 

“ That was only natural,” affirmed the sisters. 

Frances yielded to the verdict of the family, donned the new 
dress, and was so wondrous a picture of bloom and rosebuds, com- 
ing from church, that the little son of Mr. Black, the widower, dwell- 
ing in the double house at the corner, tripped on the curbstone and 
fell, all for gazing at her; a situation of peril from which she res- 
cued him just in time to receive the thanks of his gloomy and ab- 
stracted parent. From that date Mr. Black began to notice Fanny,, 
quite irrespective of her raiment ; and, although he subsequently 
confessed that he had secretly admired her for a long time, she cher- 
ished the conviction that the lilac frock had advertised her attrac- 
tions on the auspicious occasion of a first meeting. 

“I shall bless Miss Belt to my dying day,” exclaimed the girl, 
with enthusiasm. 

4 ‘ I don’t see how she could have done less than buy the other 
things,” said Mrs. Hopper, in regretful remembrance of the front 
breadth of her own wedding-gown. 

Still there was rejoicing over the good-fortune of the blooming 
Fanny on the Hopper hearthstone. 

In the springtime grass and flowers bloomed above the grave of 
Mary Fox, in the quiet cemetery, where the dimpling shadow of 
passing clouds and the note of birds breathed only of peace and 
rest. 


TULIP PLACE. 


193 


Old Mr. St. Nicholas, tulip in hand, had said to his wife : 

“I suppose they had better be married in Donald Belt’s room.” 

“I suppose so,” she had assented. “ William has made up his 
mind, and we have,no right to oppose him.” 

Mr. St. Nicholas eyed the broad and spacious mansion opposite. 

“ I intend to interest Camilla in my mission school,” he said. 

Camilla met William, and presented him with a little mouchoir 
case, neatly stitched by her, on the machine of her grandfather’s in- 
vention. He was vexed, but controlled his annoyance. 

‘ * It seems to me I have the most pride of the two, Mr. St. Nicho- 
las,” said Camilla, laughing. 

Laughter was rare in that wooing, where closest sympathy had 
been established in the darkened chamber of Donald Belt. 

“ There need be no question of pride between us,” he said, look- 
ing down on her with the light shining in his eyes which always 
drew her to his side, subdued and tender. ‘ ‘ They think we might 
be married in the presence of your father, and go away for a time. ” 

Camilla raised her face to his, yearningly. 

“ You have been the master of the house for a long time, Willy,” 
she said, tremulously. “What a twilight courtship we have had!” 

“A blessed twilight,” he answered, and kissed her. 

In the ensuing month of June William St. Nicholas returned to 
his hotel in Paris, from the bank in the Rue Scribe, with a number 
of letters in his hand. He found his wife intent on collecting some 
books for the library of Mr. St. Nicholas. 

“I hope these w T ill please him,” she said, indicating a copy of the 
“Memoirs of Maximilien de Bethune, Due de Sully,” adorned with 
the arms of Louis XV. , a royal-printing-office edition of La Roche- 
foucauld’s “ Maxims,” and a volume of the old poet, Clement Marot. 

“Alice sends us a fresh shower of blessings from London, and I 
think she intends joining Professor Ashwell in Norway, with a par- 
ty of enthusiastic Yankees,” said William St. Nicholas, opening his 
first letter ; “she declares the Engadine is an old story. Camilla, she 
says, the conceited creature! that she always hoped and prayed we 
should fall in love with each other. She saw it all from the first, 
and she is beginning to be reconciled to sacrificing her Willy for 
such a result. There is magnanimity for you!” 

“Perhaps she will be more reconciled when she learns of our 
scheme to furnish a little house for those children, not far from Tu- 
lip Place, and enter her son as clerk in the Belt Bank,” suggested 
the practical Camilla. “I intend to give Aimee half of my store of 
cushions and screens from the needlework exhibition.” 

“Do you know, they are beginning to speak of the Fox patent at 
home,” added William, turning to fresh envelopes. “I must act as 

13 


194 


TULIP PLACE. 


guardian to those boys. Jacob Wertheim is quite jolly about his 
river symphony, and threatens to perform my operetta of the 
Birthday as well, but I think we will keep that for private enjoy- 
ment.” 

The newly wedded pair entered upon an animated discussion of 
future projects, which lasted through the breakfast, and up to the 
hour for driving in the Bois. Camilla insisted that William wished 
to establish a hospital for decrepit musicians, where the spit of the 
kitchen must be set to melody, like that of the Count Castel de Ma- 
rin, capable of roasting mutton a VAnglaise , or fowl d la Fla- 
mande, all to appropriate airs. He retaliated by accusing her of 
dreaming of an elysium for sewing-machine operatives, the like of 
which had not yet dawned on the mind of the philanthropist. 

June sunshine smiled on Paris that day, and all the world was 
abroad. A file of glittering equipages traversed the Champs Elysees, 
and swept into the Bois beyond. 

The Steinbach, enveloped in a mantle of golden brocade, passed, 
and glanced at them beneath her veil. 

“I believe that I was jealous of that singer at the concert,” said 
Camilla, with sudden conviction. “ Had I reason, dear?” 

“You had no reason,” he replied, sedately. 

“The modiste has just sent me an odd little hat called the Stein- 
bach,” added Camilla, with her most whimsical expression. 

“Do not wear it,” he said, in a dry tone. 

Skirting the lake they met a second carriage, in which were seat- 
ed the Count Della Stella and a lady. The count, handsome, joy- 
ous, and elegant, bore no trace of having ever suffered an hour’s 
trouble in his life, or of having lost a hair of his now abundant 
mustache. The lady at his side was Miss Pyle, now Countess Della 
Stella, and some time to become lady-in-waiting at the Quirinal Pal- 
ace. Her mignonne prettiness was enhanced by a charming toilet 
of cream-colored lace, with tunic and bodice of blue satin, adorned 
with peacock feathers, while the jewelled bird seemed to crown her 
blonde hair with audacious coquetry. The two gentlemen raised 
their hats ; the ladies bowed. 

“My angel, you may remember that I was to marry Miss Belt,” 
said the count, touching, with a caressing gesture, the cream-colored 
glove of his gay little bride. “I allowed the barber to deprive me 
of my mustache on my wedding-morning. Surely you knew the 
reason? No? I had met you at the ball.” 

The bride curved her neck with a little birdlike motion. Had not 
her flower garland caught in his cloak? “ For that reason you fol- 
lowed me to Milan when you landed at Genoa. Yes, I know,” she 
replied, complacently. 


TULIP PLACE. 


195 


“Insipid as the queen upon a card ; 

Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun.” 

The count twisted his mustache. He had seen Camilla again. 
Did he care? Columbus had sought a passage to the Indies^d 
found the tropical islands of America instead. 

The little contessa, already intensely aristocratic, and desirous to 
maintain the family honor, adjusted her bracelets, and dreamed of 
the future before her. 

William St. Nicholas was silent. Camilla compressed her lips. 
They had met and parted on one of the world’s highways, like ships 
upon the sea. 

At length she questioned, abruptly : 

“Did you ever admire the relic of the Genoa cathedral, the sacro 
catino, the emerald dish from which Christ ate at the Last Supper, 
once given to Solomon by the Queen of Sheba?” 

“I may have seen it,” admitted her husband, quietly. 

“Napoleon discovered it was only a bit of old Venetian glass,” 
she supplemented, with bitterness. 

“ There’s a good deal of green glass lying scattered about. Noth- 
ing is true except — ” 

“Well? Except — ” 

“Music.” 

“Ah, music!” 

“Music and Camilla.” 

She turned to him with sudden passion. 

“Willy, I wish I could ever tell you how much I love you. And 
how sorry I am — I mean — ” 

He laid his hand on fler’s with a reassuring pressure. 

“Camilla, if you have finished with Paris, let us go back,” he 
said. 

They turned their faces homeward, where a cripple sat in a wheeled 
chair, with a beautiful woman beside him who had never known 
happiness, but had now found peace, and a dog watched on the 
threshold for their footsteps as summer came once more to Tulip 
Place. 


THE END. 




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DISRAELI’S (Earl of Beaconsfield) Endymion 4to, Paper 

The Young Duke 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 4to, Paper 

ELIOT’S (George) Works. Lib. Ed. 12 vols. Ill’d...l2mo, Cl., per vol. 1 

Popular Edition. 12 vols. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, per vol. 

Adam Bede. — Daniel Deronda, 2 vols. — Essays and Leaves from a 
Note-Book. — Felix Holt, the Radical. — Middlemarch, 2 vols. — 
Romola. - — Scenes of Clerical Life, and Silas Marner. — The Mill 
on the Floss. — Poems : with Brother Jacob and The Lifted Veil. 
Fireside Edition. Containing the above in 6 vols. ( Sold only in 

Sets.) 12mo, Cloth 7 

Adam Bede. Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Amos Barton 32mo, Paper 

Brother Jacob. — The Lifted Veil 32mo, Paper 

Daniel Deronda 8vo, Paper 

Felix Holt, tl*e Radical 8vo, Paper 

Janet’s Repentance 32mo, Paper 


20 

10 

25 

25 

10 

50 

60 

50 

75 

10 

10 

15 

15 

25 

75 


50 

25 

20 

20 

50 

50 

20 


Harper &' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


o 


ELIOT’S (George) Middlemarch 8vo, Paper $ 75 

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 32mo, Paper 20 

Romola. Illustrated 8 vo, Paper 50 

Silas Marner 12mo, Paper 20 

Scenes of Clerical Life 8vo, Paper 50 

The Mill on the Floss 8vo, Paper 50 

EDWARDS’S (A. B.) Barbara’s History 8vo, Paper 50 

Debenham’s Vow. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Half a Million of Money 8vo, Paper 50 

Lord Brackenbury 4to, Paper 15 

Miss Carew 8vo, Paper 35 

My Brother’s Wife 8vo, Paper 25 

EDWARDS’S (M. B.) Disarmed 4to, Paper 15 

Exchange No Robbery 4to, Paper 15 

Kitty 8vo, Paper 35 

Pearla . . 4to, Paper 20 

The Flower of Doom, and Other Stories 16mo, Paper 25 

FAR JEON’S An Island Pearl. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

At the Sign of the Silver Flagon 8vo, Paper 25 

Blade-o’-Grass. Illustrated !...8vo, Paper 30 

Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 35 

Golden Grain. Illustrated 8 vo, Paper 35 

Great Porter Square 4to, Paper 20 

Jessie Trim .* 8vo, Paper 35 

Joshua Marvel 8vo, Paper 40 

Love’s Harvest 4to, Paper 20 

Love’s Victory 8 vo, Paper 20 

Shadows on the Snow. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 

The Bells of Penraven 4to, Paper 10 

The Duchess of Rosemary Lane 8vo, Paper 35 

The King of No-Land. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 25 

GASKELL’S (Mrs.) Cousin Phillis 8vo, Paper 20 

Cranford 16mo, Cloth 1 25 

Mary Barton 8vo, Paper, 40 cents ; 4to, Paper 20 

Moorland Cottage 18mo, Cloth 75 

My Lady Ludlow 8vo, Paper 20 

Right at Last, &c 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

Sylvia’s Lovers 8vo, Paper 40 

Wives and Daughters. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

GIBBON’S (C.) A Hard Knot 12mo, Paper 25 

A Heart’s Problem. ,.4to, Paper 10 

By Mead and Stream 4to, Paper 20 

For Lack of Gold 8vo, Paper 35 

For the King 8vo, Paper 30 

Heart’s Delight 4to, Paper 20 

In Honor Bound 4to, Paper 35 

Of High Degree 8vo, Paper 20 

Robin Gray 8vo, Paper 35 

Queen of the Meadow 4to, Paper 15 


6 


Harper &' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PBIOB 

GIBBON’S (C.) The Braes of Yarrow 4to, Paper $ 20 

The Golden Shaft 4to, Paper 20 

HARDY’S (Thos.) Fellow-Townsmen 32mo, Paper 20 

A Laodicean. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 

Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid 4to, Paper 10 

HARRISON’S (Mrs.) Golden Rod 32mo, Paper 25 

Helen Troy 16mo, Cloth 1 00 

HAY’S (M. C.) A Dark Inheritance 32mo, Paper 15 

A Shadow on the Threshold 32mo, Paper 20 

Among the Ruins, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

At the Seaside, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Back to the Old Home 32mo, Paper 20 

Bid Me Discourse 4to, Paper 10 

Dorothy’s Venture 4to, Paper 15 

For Her Dear Sake 4to, Paper 15 

Hidden Perils 8vo, Paper 25 

Into the Shade, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Carmichael’s Will 32mo, Paper 15 

Lester’s Secret .....4to, Paper 20 

Missing 32mo, Paper 20 

My First Offer, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 . 

Nora’s Love Test 8vo, Paper 25 

Old Myddelton’s Money 8vo, Paper 25 

Reaping the Whirlwind .. 32mo, Paper 20 

The Arundel Motto 8vo, Paper 25 

The Sorrow of a Secret 32mo, Paper 15 

The Squire’s Legacy 8vo, Paper 25 

Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Victor and Vanquished «8vo, Paper 25 

HOEY’S (Mrs. C.) A Golden Sorrow 8vo, Paper 40 

All or Nothing 4to, Paper 15 

Kate Cronin’s Dowry 32mo, Paper 15 

The Blossoming of an Aloe 8vo, Paper 30 

The Lover’s Creed 4to, Paper 20 

The Question of Cain 4to, Paper 20 

HUGO’S (Victor) Ninety-Three. Ill’d. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 8vo, Paper 25 

The Toilers of the Sea. Ill’d 8vo, Cloth, 150; 8vo, Paper 50 

JAMES’S (Henry, Jun.) Daisy Miller 32mo, Paper 20 

An International Episode / 32mo, Paper 20 

Diary of a Man of Fifty, and A Bundle of Letters 32mo, Paper 25 

The four above-mentioned works in one volume 4to, Paper 25 

Washington Square. Illustrated 16mo, Cloth 1 25 

JOHNSTON’S (R. M.) Dukesborough Tales. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

Old Mark Langston 16 mo, Cloth 1 00 

LANG’S (Mrs.) Dissolving Views... 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents ; 16mo, Paper 35 

LAWRENCE’S (G. A.) Anteros 8vo, Paper 40 

Brakespeare 8vo, Paper 40 

Breaking a Butterfly 8vo, Paper 35 

Guy Livingstone 12mo, Cloth, $1 60 ; 4to, Paper 10 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


7 


PRICE 

LAWRENCE’S (G. A.) Hagarene 8vo, Paper $ 35 

Maurice Dering 8vo, Paper 25 

Sans Merci 8 vo, Paper 35 

Sword and Gown 8vo, Paper 20 

LEVER’S (Charles) A Day’s Ride 8vo, Paper 40 

Barrington 8vo, Paper 40 

Gerald Fitzgerald 8vo, Paper 40 

Lord Kilgobbin. Illustrated 8vo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8 vo, Paper 50 

One of Them 8vo, Paper 50 

Roland Cashel. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 75 

Sir Brook Fosbrooke ..8vo, Paper 50 

Sir Jasper Carew 8vo, Paper 50 

That Boy of Norcott’s. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 26 

The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 8vo, Paper 50 

The Daltons 8vo, Paper 75 

The Fortunes of Glencore 8vo, Paper 50 

The Martins of Cro’ Martin 8vo, Paper 60 

Tony Butler 8vo, Paper 60 

LILLIE’S (Mrs. L. C.) Prudence. IU’d. 16ino, Cl., 90 cts. ; 16mo, Paper 50 

MCCARTHY’S (Justin) Comet of a Season 4to, Paper 20 

Donna Quixote 4to, Paper 15 

Maid of Athens 4to, Paper 20 

My Enemy’s Daughter. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

The Commander’s Statue 32mo, Paper 15 

The Waterdale Neighbors 8vo, Paper 35 

MACDONALD’S (George) Alec Forbes 8vo, Paper 50 

Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 12rao, Cloth 1 25 

Donal Grant 4to, Paper 20 

Guild Court 8vo, Paper 40 

Warlock o’ Glenwarlock 4to, Paper . 20 

Weighed and Wanting 4to, Paper 20 

MULOCK’S (Miss) A Brave Lady. Ill’d. 12mo, Cl., 90 cents. ; 8vo, Paper 60 

Agatha’s Husband. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper 35 

A Legacy 12mo, Cloth 90 

A Life for a Life 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 40 

A Noble Life 12mo, Cloth 90 

Avillion, and Other Tales 8vo, Paper 60 

Christian’s Mistake 12mo, Cloth 90 

Hannah. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8 vo, Paper 35 

Head of the Family. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8 vo, Paper 50 

His Little Mother 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 4to, Paper 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 4to, Paper 15 

Miss Tommy. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 12mo, Paper 50 

Mistress and Maid 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 30 

My Mother and I Illustrated.. 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 40 

Nothing New '. 8vo, Paper 30 

Ogilvies. Illustrated 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents; 8vo, Paper 35 


8 


Harper <& Brothers' Popular Novels . 


PRICE 

MULOCK’S (Miss) Olive. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper $ 35 

The Laurel Bush. Ill’d 12mo, Cloth, 90 cents ; 8vo, Paper 25 

The Woman’s Kingdom. Ill’d. . . 12mo, Cloth, 90 cts. ; 8vo, Paper 60 

Two Marriages 12mo, Cloth 90 

Unkind Word, and Other Stories 12mo, Cloth 90 

Young Mrs. Jardine 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; 4to, Paper 10 

MURRAY’S (D. C.) A Life’s Atonement 4to, Paper 20 

A Model Father 4to, Paper 10 

By the Gate of the Sea 4to, Paper, 15 cents ; 12mo, Paper 15 

Hearts 4to, Paper 20 

The Way of the World 4to, Paper 20 

Yal Strange 4to, Paper 20 

Adrian Vidal. Illustrated 4to, Paper 25 

NORRIS’S (W. E.) A Man of His Word, &c 4to, Paper 20 

Heaps of Money 8vo, Paper 15 

Mademoiselle de Mersac 4to, Paper 20 

Matrimony 4to, Paper 20 

No New Thing .....4to, Paper 25 

That Terrible Man 12mo, Paper 25 

Thirlby Hall. Illustrated 4to, Paper 26 

OLIPH ANT’S (Laurence) Altiora Peto . 4to, Paper, 20 cts. ; 1 6mo, Paper 20 

Piccadilly 16mo, Paper 25 

OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) Agnes 8vo, Paper 50 

A Son of the Soil 8vo, Paper 50 

Athelings 8vo, Paper 60 

Brownlows 8vo, Paper 50 

CaritA Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Chronicles of Carlingford 8vo, Paper 60 

Days of My Life 12mo, Cloth 1 60 

For Love and Life 8vo, Paper 50 

Harry Joscelyn..... 4to, Paper 20 

He That Will Not when He May 4to, Paper 20 

Hester 4to, Paper 20 

Innocent. Illustrated ....8vo, Paper 50 

It was a Lover and His Lass 4to, Paper 20 

Lady Jane * 4to, Paper 10 

Lucy Crofton 12mo, Cloth 1 50 

Madam 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents; 4to, Paper 25 

Madonna Marv 8vo, Paper 50 

Miss Marjoribanks 8vo, Paper 60 

Mrs. Arthur 8vo, Paper 40 

Ombra 8vo, Paper 60 

Phoebe, Junior 8vo, Paper 35 

Sir Tom 4to, Paper 20 

Squire Arden 8vo, Paper 60 

The Curate in Charge 8vo, Paper 20 

The Fugitives 4to, Paper 10 

The Greatest Heiress in England 4to, Paper 10 

The Ladies Lindores 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


9 


OLIPHANT’S (Mrs.) The Laird of Norlaw 12mo, Cloth $1 

The Last of the Mortimers 12mo, Cloth 1 

The Primrose Path 8vo, Paper 

The Story of Valentine and his Brother 8vo, Paper 

The Wizard’s Son 4to, Paper 

Within the Precincts 4to, Paper 

Young Musgrave 8vo, Paper 

PAYN’S (James) A Beggar on Horseback 8vo, Paper 

A Confidential Agent 4to, Paper 

A Grape from a Thorn 4to, Paper 

A Woman’s Vengeance 8vo, Paper 

At Her Mercy 8vo, Paper 

Bred in the Bone 8vo, Paper 

By Proxy 8vo, Paper 

Carlyon’s Year 8vo, Paper 

For Cash Only 4to, Paper 

Found Dead 8vo, Paper 

From Exile 4to, Paper 

Gwendoline’s Harvest 8vo, Paper 

Halves 8vo, Paper 

High Spirits 4to, Paper 

Kit. Illustrated 4to, Paper 

Less Black than We’re Painted 8vo, Paper 

Murphy’s Master 8vo, Paper 

One of the Family 8vo, Paper 

The Best of Husbands 8vo, Paper 

The Canon’s Ward. Illustrated 4to, Paper 

The Talk of the Town 4to, Paper 

Thicker than Water 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 

Under One Roof 4to, Paper 

Walter’s Word 8vo, Paper 

What He Cost Her 8vo, Paper 

Won — Not Wooed 8vo, Paper 

READE’S Novels: Household Edition. Ill’d. . ...12mo, Cloth, per vol. 1 
A Simpleton awe? Wandering Heir. 

A Terrible Temptation. 

A Woman-Hater. 

Foul Play. 

Good Stories. 

Griffith Gaunt. 

Hard Cash. 


PRICE 

50 

50 

50 

50 

25 

15 

40 

35 

15 

20 

35 

30 

40 

35 

25 

20 

25 

15 

25 

30 

15 

20 

35 

20 

25 

26 
25 
20 
20 
15 
60 
40 
30 
00 


It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
Love me Little, Love me Long. 
Peg Woffington, Christie John- 
stone, &c. 

Put Yourself in His Place. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 
White Lies. 


A Perilous Secret... 12mo, Cl., 75 cts. ; 4to, Pap., 20 cts. ; 16mo, Pap. 40 

A Hero and a Martyr 8vo, Paper 15 

A Simpleton 8vo, Paper 30 

A Terrible Temptation. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 25 

A Woman-Hater. Ill’d 8vo, Paper, 30 cents ; 12 mo, Paper 20 

Foul Play 8vo, Paper 30 

Good Stories of Man and Other Animals. Illustrated... 4to, Paper 20 

Griffith Gaunt. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 30 


10 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


READE’S (Charles) Hard Cash. Illustrated 8vo, Paper $ 35 

It is Never Too Late to Mend 8vo, Paper 35 

Jack of all Trades 16mo, Paper 16 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long 8vo, Paper 30 

Multum in Parvo. Illustrated 4to, Paper 15 

Peg Woffington, &c 8vo, Paper 35 

Put Yourself in His Place. Illustrated... 8vo, Paper 35 

The Cloister and the Hearth 8vo, Paper 35 

The Coming Man 32mo, Paper 20 

The Jilt 32mo, Paper 20 

The Picture 16mo, Paper 15 

The Wandering Heir. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 20 

White Lies 8vo, Paper 30 

ROBINSON’S (F. W.) A Bridge of Glass 8vo, Paper 30 

A Fair Maid 4to, Paper 20 

A Girl’s Romance, and Other Stories 8vo, Paper 30 

As Long as She Lived 8vo, Paper 50 

Carry’s Confession 8vo, Paper 50 

Christie’s Faith 12mo, Cloth 1 75 

Coward Conscience 4 to, Paper 15 

Her Face was Her Fortune 8vo, Paper 40 

Lazarus in London 4to, Paper 20 

Little Kate Kirby. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 60 

Mattie: aStray 8vo, Paper 40 

No Man’s Friend 8vo, Paper 50 

Othello the Second 32mo, Paper 20 

Poor Humanity 8vo, Paper 50 

PoorZeph!.. 32mo, Paper 20 

Romance on Four Wheels.. 8vo, Paper 15 

Second-Cousin Sarah. Illustrated 8vo, Paper 50 

Stern Necessity 8vo, Paper 40 

The Barmaid at Battleton 32mo, Paper 15 

The Black Speck.' 4to, Paper 10 

The Hands of Justice ,..4to, Paper 20 

The Man She Cared For 4to, Paper 20 

The Romance of a Back Street 32mo, Paper 16 

True to Herself 8vo, Paper 50 

RUSSELL’S (W. Clark) Auld Lang Syne 4to, Paper 10 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart 4to, Paper 15 

A Sea Queen 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper 20 

An Ocean Free Lance 4to, Paper 20 

Jack’s Courtship 16mo, Cloth, 1 00; 4to, Paper 25 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate 4to, Paper 20 

Little Loo 4to, Paper 20 

My Watch Below 4to, Paper 20 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 4to, Paper 15 

Round the Galley Fire 4to, Paper 15 

The “ Lady Maud Schooner Yacht. Illustrated 4to, Paper 20 

Wreck of the “ Grosvenor ” 8vo, Paper, 30 cents ; 4to, Paper 15 


It surpasses all its predecessors. — N. Y. Tribune. 


STORMONTH’S' ENGLISH DICTIONARY. 

A Dictionary of the English Language, Pronouncing, Etymological, 
and Explanatory, Embracing Scientific and Other Terms, Numer- 
ous Familiar Terms, and a Copious Selection of Old English 
Words. By the Rev. James Stormonth. The Pronunciation 
Carefully Revised by the Rev. P. H. Phelp, M.A. pp. 1248. 
4to, Cloth, $6 00 ; Half Roan, $7 00 ; Sheep, $7 50. 

Also in Harper’s Franklin Square Library, in Twenty- 
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binding supplied by the publishers on receipt of 50 cents. 

As regards thoroughness of etymological research and breadth of modern inclusion, 
Stormonth’s new dictionary surpasses all its predecessors. * * * In fact, Stormonth’s 
Dictionary possesses merits so many and conspicuous that it can hardly fail to estab- 
lish itself as a standard and a favorite. — N. Y. Tribune. 

This may serve in great measure the purposes of an English cyclopaedia. It gives 
lucid and succinct definitions of the technical terms in science and art, in law and 
medicine. We have the explanation of words and phrases that puzzle most people, 
showing wonderfully comprehensive and out-of-the-way research. We need only add 
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A most valuable addition to the library of the scholar and of the general reader. 
It can have for the present no possible rival. — Boston Post. 

It has the bones and sinews of the grand dictionary of the future. * * * An invalu- 
able library book. — Ecclesiastical Gazette , London. 

A work which is certainly without a rival, all things considered, among the dic- 
tionaries of our language. The peculiarity of the work is that it is equally well adapt- 
ed to the uses of the man of business, who demands compactness and ease of reference, 
and to those of the most exigent scholar. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

As compared with our standard dictionaries, it is better in type, richer in its vocab- 
ulary, and happier in arrangement. Its system of grouping is admirable. * * * He 
who possesses this dictionary will enjoy and use it, and its bulk is not so great as to 
make use of it a terror. — Christian Advocate , N. Y. 

A well-planned and carefully executed work, which has decided merits of its own, 
and for which there is a place not filled by any of its rivals. — N. Y. Sun. 

A work of sterling value. It has received from all quarters the highest commenda- 
tion. — Lutheran Observer, Philadelphia. 

A trustworthy, truly scholarly dictionary of our English language. — Christian Intel- 
ligencer, N. Y. 

The issue of Stormonth’s great English dictionary is meeting with a hearty wel- 
come everywhere. — Boston Transcript. 

A critical and accurate dictionary, the embodiment of good scholarship and the 
result of modern researches. Compression and clearness are its external evidences, 
and it offers a favorable comparison with the best dictionaries in use, while it holds an 
unrivalled place in bringing forth the result of modern philological criticism. — Boston 
Journal. 

Full, complete, and accurate, including all the latest words, and giving all their 
derivatives and correlatives. The definitions are short, but plain, the method of mak- 
ing pronunciation very simple, and the arrangement such as to give the best results 
in the smallest space. — Philadelphia Inquirer. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

HAKrEB & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid , to any 
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HARPER’S BAZAR FOR 1886. 


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